Blood Feud

by Alyxandra Harvey

  Isabeau swallowed, sent me a look I couldn’t quite decipher. She opened her mouth with a warning but the man next to her clapped his hand over her mouth. I scowled.

  “You know the rules,” Kala told her sharply. “The bones and the dreams are not to be ignored.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured her. I raised an eyebrow at the Hounds still muscling her into silence. “Get off her.” I couldn’t believe she was allowing it. These traditions must run deeper than I’d thought. “Now.”

  He smirked and let his hand drop but didn’t move away from her. Charlemagne didn’t look as if he felt the need to bite the man’s face off so I supposed I shouldn’t either. It probably didn’t bode well that a dog had better self-control when it came to Isabeau than I did.

  Kala shook a seed rattle hung with dog teeth. The sound was like rain on a tin rooftop. Six other Hounds lifted their own rattles and joined the prayer. Kala was chanting in a language that sounded like Sanskrit accented with guttural Viking-esque sounds. If I closed my eyes I could have been in some beautiful desert temple … or about to be ripped apart by a Viking Beserker in bear armor.

  The song ended, the rattles trailing off into silence.

  “Begin,” Kala barked.

  I tensed, half expecting vampires to rush at me howling. Nothing happened. There was the cold silence of the caves, the steady drip of water into the lake, the shifting of dogs. The unremarkable quiet moment was nearly worse than an out-and-out attack. That at least I had some vague idea how to handle. This was unnerving.

  It was meant to be.

  I lifted my chin arrogantly, standing with loose knees, ready to spring. I could take what they threw at me. And hell if I’d let them see me squirm and sweat.

  And then I heard it.

  The growl was low enough that I nearly felt it rumble in the ground under my feet.

  The dog was that big.

  He had the heavy bulk of Ox-Eye, with a generous dash of Doberman and Rottweiler. Drool plopped into the dust as his lips lifted off teeth that would have done a Hel-Blar proud. It was all muscle, not an ounce of soft puppy fat anywhere. And he was trained to fight and kill, with a leather collar armed with spikes to protect him from his prey. I’d heard they’d used dogs like this in the gladiator rings in ancient Rome and to hunt boar in the Middle Ages.

  Knowing that hardly gave me an advantage though; just a shot of adrenaline in my veins.

  I should have known they’d use dogs. And if I hurt it, even to save my own skin, they’d likely kill me for it anyway. The other dogs ringed around us in the dark growled in response.

  Trial or trick?

  Too late to regret my rash decision now.

  I knew better than to back away or make eye contact. And I didn’t have a handy drugged slab of steak with which to distract it. Just my own pitiful self.

  This whole tribal negotiation thing just sucked.

  Not to mention crushing on a girl who came from a tribe of bloodthirsty lunatics.

  The dog paced toward me, head lowered threateningly, stalking me.

  I wasn’t going down like a damned gazelle. That would hardly prove my worth to Isabeau.

  Very possibly this was the night my white-knight complex, as Solange put it, would get me killed. Someone had better write a poem about it. It was only fair.

  I held my ground. There was nowhere for me to go at any rate, I was surrounded by warriors and their dogs. The light glimmered off the silver buttons of my coat on the ledge. If I was very lucky, I might be able to flip up and land on the narrow stone outcrop and climb out of reach. I looked back at the slavering war dog and bent my knees further, waiting. Everything else receded: Isabeau’s carefully blank expression, the telltale way she clutched her hands together, the flickering light, the thunder of the waterfall. It was just me and the dog and the uneven stone.

  I had one chance.

  I carefully made eye contact and bared my fangs.

  He didn’t waste a single moment on barking or growling. His legs bunched up and he lunged at me, all teeth and wild eyes. His collar gleamed viciously. I bent, pushed off, and flung myself into a backflip that would have done any acrobat proud. I sailed gracefully through the air, nearly grinning.

  The landing, however, wiped my smirk right off. The steel toe of my boot jammed into the wall. There wasn’t enough room for my entire foot, and not enough of a handhold to keep me comfortably upright. The stone crumbled under my heel as I teetered, cursing. I slipped, dropped to the ground. The jagged rock tore at my arms, drawing thick rivulets of blood. I nearly lost a tooth bashing the side of my face.

  No one was looking at me anyway.

  There was a snap of teeth on air and another growl. Charlemagne sailed out of his position at Isabeau’s feet and landed between me and the war dog. He landed with more power and grace than I’d shown. He snapped his teeth, growling. The war dog paused, lowered his ears, and promptly sat down, whining.

  My mouth dropped open.

  Kala inclined her head. “Very good,” she said.

  I wiped blood and grime off my hands. “What the hell just happened?”

  “You passed the first trial,” she said as if I was slow, as if this sort of thing was perfectly normal. “And, much more impressively, one of our own dogs claimed you as his own. That does not often happen.”

  I blinked sweat out of my eyes. Charlemagne’s tongue lolled happily out of his mouth.

  Kala sprinkled a handful of dried herbs and what looked like chalk into a small fire burning at the limestone bank of the white lake. “Ground-up bones of some of our most sacred dogs,” she explained. She pointed to the hundreds of grottolike shrines that had been dug into the rock. They each held a candle or clay urns. “We keep them all close by, along with the ashes of our Mothers.” I assumed “Mother” was another term for “shamanka.”

  And the smoke from the fire filled my nostrils and I stopped caring about semantics and powdered bones. The Hounds seemed to fade slightly into the background and Isabeau might as well have had a spotlight on her. She glowed like pearls and stars and moonlight. She was even more beautiful than usual, her long straight hair gleaming, her stance graceful, nearly coquettish. She wore a slinky dress of clinging satin in a deep burgundy, slit up one leg practically to her hip. Her slender leg emerged as she took a step forward. My mouth went dry. She wasn’t wearing any jewelry, only those faded scars.

  And she was smiling at me.

  “Logan,” she said softly, her green eyes glowing with amusement and heat as she approached me.

  “Isabeau,” I croaked. My voice cracked in a way it hadn’t done since I was thirteen years old. I felt about as suave as I had then. The fire crackled beside us, sending out curtains of scented smoke that lingered in the air between us and the others. We might have been entirely alone in the caves, in the whole world even.

  She stopped when she was close enough to lick me without leaning forward.

  Which she did.

  She kissed me so thoroughly the war dog could have snuck up behind me and chomped on my leg and I wouldn’t have noticed. She tasted sweet, like mulled wine and spices. Her tongue touched mine and I pulled her so close against my chest there was no room between us even for the billowing smoke. She nipped at me playfully and then she was soft and pliant in my arms, clinging to me and sighing my name.

  It took a moment for coherent thought to hit me.

  Isabeau would never sigh and cling like that, never run her hand under my shirt, along the waistline of my trousers with her entire tribe watching.

  Not Isabeau.

  It still required a supreme application of will to enable me to pull away. She was barely an inch from me, our noses practically touched. She licked her lower lip. I lost my train of thought. Shit, man up, Drake, I told myself.

  She nuzzled my ear until shivers touched my spine.

  “Logan, let’s leave this place,” she murmured. “Leave the Hounds and the Drakes and all of the politics. It could be
just you and me. Alone.”

  There was probably a really good reason why I shouldn’t agree with her and let her lead me out of the caves. As soon as the blood returned to my brain, I’d remember what it was.

  She nibbled on my earlobe and I knew I was in trouble. Serious trouble. Vampire megalomaniacs and civil wars had nothing on this girl.

  “Come with me, Logan.”

  It was physically painful to pull away. The smoke seemed thicker, it clung to her hair and stuck in my throat.

  She ran a silver awl needle across the delicate skin of her inner wrist. I could see the blue rivers of her veins. Warm fragrant blood pooled on her winter-cool skin, across her arm to drip on the ground. She held up her red wrist.

  “Drink, Logan. I want you to.”

  Self-control around fresh blood was never exactly easy for a very young vampire. I knew if I hadn’t drunk my fill earlier that evening I’d have been utterly lost. Isabeau and blood were just too much to resist when put together. As it was I had to clench my back molars, trying to stop my fangs from protruding. I was only half successful.

  She smiled, licked a drop of blood from her fingertip.

  “I’m offering, Logan.”

  I snarled when my fangs won the battle with my gums and clenched jaw. I grabbed her elbow and dragged her toward the lake.

  She giggled.

  Definitely not the real Isabeau.

  The smoke followed us. Her blood trailed pink ribbons in the milky water.

  “What are you doing?” she asked nervously. She shifted, bared her leg invitingly.

  But I’d already remembered what she’d told me earlier, when we were in spirit form. The trio of fat candles flickering on my left sent just enough light skittering on the pearly surface of the lake. I jerked her a little closer, angling her so I could see her reflection.

  The lake might not be an actual mirror, but it was close enough.

  I saw the smoke in the vague shape of a woman. It was the first time I’d come this close to the old myth of vampires not having a reflection.

  I let go of her with a stifled curse, jerking back so quickly I would have spun her off her feet if she’d been real. I was alone suddenly in the smoke, grinding my heel in the dirt as I turned to glare at the Hounds. They weren’t standing in the shadows anymore.

  Kala didn’t smile but she looked faintly pleased. “Last test,” she murmured.

  “Which is what exactly?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Trial by combat.”

  I nearly sighed. “Of course it is,” I muttered, unsurprised. I might have been more worried if I hadn’t been defending myself against six brothers my whole life. And if I didn’t have a mother who thought she was a ninja.

  “Morgan.” Kala motioned a woman out of the crowd. She looked barely sixteen, wearing a gray velvet dress that fell to her bare feet. Her hair hung to her knees in three fat braids, all clattering with bone beads, some painted blue, some gold. She was graceful, dainty, small as a ballet dancer.

  I wasn’t fooled.

  Especially when she leaped at me, without even a warning battle shriek—even the telltale sound of her sword scraping its scabbard as she pulled it free was nonexistent. I wasn’t going to be able to dance my way out of this one. I went low, rolling under her feet before she landed. When I flipped back up into a standing position she was already spinning to face me.

  I had to leap backward so the tip of her sword didn’t take my nose right off. The bracelets around her wrist jingled prettily. Since I happened to like my face where it was, I turned into my lean and kicked out. I got her in the solar plexus but not with enough force to actually cause any damage. She’d anticipated me and was fast enough to avoid the full punch of my heel. She grabbed my boot as it passed and yanked hard. I fell back, smashing my elbow and shoulder into the uneven rock. The flames of the candles by my head trembled.

  This was ritual to the Hounds; they didn’t holler or clap, only chanted and shook the occasional rattle.

  It was both annoying and creepy.

  When she came at me again, I stuck out my leg and tried to trip her. She stumbled but didn’t fall. It did give me enough of a pause to get back up though. I flicked my hair out of my eyes. Blood smeared over my back from the rocks, dripping down my arm. Double and triple sets of fangs extended all around me. Morgan’s nostrils flared.

  And then there was just no escaping her attack.

  She jabbed at me like a hornet, her sword drawing blood at my wrist, arm, chest, thigh. I fought her off as long as I could, landing a few blows but nothing definitive enough to win me the fight. And then, somehow, I was sailing through the air. I landed at Isabeau’s feet, her boot digging into my ribs.

  So much for proving myself to her.

  The tip of Morgan’s sword, already stained with my blood, rested on my Adam’s apple. I froze and tried not to swallow. It seemed to take forever before Morgan stepped back, sheathed her sword, and glided away. I swallowed convulsively. Isabeau crouched down, half smiling.

  “That was brilliant.”

  It almost made my total humiliation bearable. I pushed up out of my sprawl. “Did you miss the part where she kicked my ass?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Morgan always wins. She’s our champion.”

  I frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “It wasn’t about winning. Only two Hounds have beaten her in the last one hundred and fifty years.”

  “Then what the hell was it about?” I held up my hand. “You know what, never mind. I don’t think I care.”

  Kala approached us. “Well done, Logan Drake. We now consider you a brother.”

  “Yeah? Cool.”

  She handed me my shirt and jacket, and a leather thong with a dog’s tooth wrapped in copper wire. “This was one of Charlemagne’s baby teeth. It marks you as one of us and has magic worked into it.”

  I slipped it over my head as the Hounds traded rattles for drums. The bruises around my right eye pulsed. “Thanks.” The drumbeats echoed all around us and a fire was lit in the center of the cave.

  “Ordinarily we would celebrate and dance until dawn.” Kala lowered her voice. “But I understand you have matters to attend to?”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  Isabeau turned to me. “Yes, we should go.” She slanted me a glance as we climbed the rough-hewn steps to the balcony-type ledge. “Logan?”

  “Yes?” I pulled my clothes back on even though the fabric stuck to my wounds. So much for trying to keep them clean.

  “How did you know it wasn’t really me?”

  “Are you kidding? Your eyeballs could be on fire and you wouldn’t bat your lashes at me like that.”

  CHAPTER 19

  LOGAN

  We reached the ledge when the barking started.

  At first it sounded like it was coming from far away, echoing down the stone passageways. Once it reached the main cavern the other dogs joined the chorus, barking, growling, howling. The hairs on my arms stood up. The Hounds went on high alert instantly, reaching for weapons. I strained to hear beyond the dogs’ frantic singing. Kala clapped her hands and spoke a one-word command, sharp as broken glass. I’d have shut up too if I were a dog. Hell, I’d have shut up anyway.

  Isabeau tilted her head. I heard a faint thump, three long, one short, as if something was hitting a pipe. It clanged toward us, so shrill I thought the water of the lake might have rippled slightly.

  “Attack,” Isabeau said, mostly for my benefit. I expected everyone else there knew exactly what those series of sounds had meant. All I wanted was to get out and warn my family about Montmartre’s attack. “A warning for battle and—” She stopped, clearly stunned to hear two more short clangs. “And to hide,” she elaborated finally, as if such a thing had never occurred to any of them before.

  I hated to think what could make the entire pack of Hounds, on their own territory and with their war dogs, blanch.

  I wasn’t eager to hang around and find out. />
  Discretion was definitely the better part of valor sometimes—plus, someone had to save Isabeau from herself.

  I knew for a fact that she would jump into the fray, regardless of the danger. I was frankly amazed she hadn’t gotten herself killed already.

  Morgan was standing guard over Kala, ushering the shamanka toward a narrow crevice in one of the far walls, hung with cobwebs. Most of the dogs went with them. Isabeau snapped her fingers and pointed for Charlemagne to join them. A few of the more ferocious ones stayed behind with the Hounds. The efficient way they stepped into battle formation would have brought tears of joy to my mother’s eyes.

  A shriek echoed toward us. I whipped one of my daggers into my hand. Isabeau lifted her sword grimly. I heard scuffling, grunting, and then a Hound trailing blood from a head wound stumbled onto the ledge. I nearly skewered him. The fact that he collapsed at my feet saved his life and the future of the alliance between our tribes.

  “Hel-Blar,” he gurgled, choking. “Dozens of them.”

  “Shit,” I said as Isabeau and I stared at each other wide-eyed. I went cold all over. “It’s misdirection.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked as Hounds scrambled up to wait on either side of the tunnel. Someone dragged their wounded compatriot out of the way so he wouldn’t be trampled once the fighting began.

  “It’s Montmartre,” I said. “It has to be. He wants to discredit our tribes to each other to make sure none of you come to our aid.” I went even colder, if that was possible. I wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if ice had formed in my mouth. “He’s going for the royal courts tonight,” I said. “Now. They’ve moved up the attack and this is how he’s going to keep the Hounds out of the way.”

  Her hands curled into fists. “Greyhaven might have sensed me at Montmartre’s. He would know my spirit signature. He’d have reacted accordingly.”