by N M Thorn
“He’s all yours,” he yelled. Then he seized Cole by the scruff of the neck and pushed him inside.
Cole stumbled a few steps forward before he could stop and looked around. He was in a large, empty room. Just like everywhere in the facility, there were no windows, but this room didn’t have a one-side mirror, at least as far as he could see. The space was poorly illuminated, and shadows gathered in every corner, obscuring the far end of the room.
Sharpening his hearing, Cole stilled. Even though all his heightened vampiric senses told him he was alone, he was positive he wasn’t. He couldn’t see, hear, or smell anything, yet he detected a slight fluctuation in the magical energy field. He had no idea how he could sense it or how he was doing it for that matter, but he knew what it was instantly. The wave of magic was weak, and it felt as if a light current of electricity grazed his skin. Everything inside him tensed as he prepared for an invisible attack.
The air shimmered with purple sparkles a few feet away from him, and three women stepped out of the shadows. All three were armed with swords, but their blades remained sheathed in the scabbards attached to their belts. They halted, observing him with silent hatred.
The Head of the supernatural fighting House wants to test my fighting skills. How original. A thought rushed through Cole’s mind, and his eyes swept around the perimeter of the room, searching for anti-magic tech. He wasn’t surprised when he didn’t find any, but he saw a few cameras installed under the ceiling and that just confirmed his suspicion. Enjoy the free show, bastard.
“I’m unarmed,” he said, raising his hands, “and I have no desire to fight you.”
The women exchanged a quick look and burst out laughing.
“There will be no fighting, vamp,” the taller one of them said. Stepping forward, she raised her arm and pulled her sleeve up, exposing a red tattoo on her wrist. “We’ll just kill you right away.”
Cole glanced at the tattoo, but he knew what it was without looking—the Sisterhood of the Sun symbol.
Damian was right—the imposters are working for Amaris… His eyes darted from one face to the next, quickly registering every detail. But how did they come in possession of the Sisterhood’s secret poison recipe? And their fighting style, too… Who taught them?
“I’m sure you will give it your best,” he said calmly. “Since I’m unarmed and alone against three armed and well-trained opponents, you may think you actually have a tiny, itsy-bitsy chance…” He tilted his head, regarding them with frosty contempt. “But even though the fight won’t be fair, I sincerely doubt you can win it.”
“I guess we’ll see.” The woman cackled, extending her hand toward him. “Moderius,” she shouted.
Even before she said the spell, he felt the spike of magical energy around her. Reacting immediately, he ducked to the side. Picking up as much speed as he could in the limited space, he switched into a brutal attack. Before they realized he wasn’t affected by the spell, he punched the woman on his left. To him, it was a light jab, but her nose cracked, blood gushing down her chin. She yelped and blacked out, falling backward. Before her body hit the floor, he seized her sword, pulling it out of the scabbard. In one fluid motion, he thrust the blade through her heart and turned to the other two.
“Now, ladies,” he said in a hissing whisper, raising the blood-smeared weapon to his shoulder, “shall we dance?”
For a heartbeat, they stared at him, stunned, their widened eyes darting from the sword in his hands to the dead woman sprawled on the floor. Then one of them screamed, an ear-piercing shriek of anger, and all hell broke loose. Even though they were moving with the speed and fluidity of Sisterhood slayers, Cole clearly saw they didn’t have the self-control and mental focus the slayers had, and that told him that they couldn’t have been training long. Driven by anger, they spread apart just to attack him from opposite directions, each of them moving in a straight line without much care about his position.
He spun out of their direct line of assault, knowing full well that even with their minds clouded by their raging emotions, they still presented a dangerous force. Underestimating his opponents wasn’t his style. Between their poisoned swords and their magic, it was only a matter of time before one of them would reach him if he wasn’t faster and smarter than them.
Suddenly, something changed. He didn’t hear them saying a spell, but the magical energy spiked around them, and both women vanished. Their cloaking magic was so potent that he couldn’t hear their heartbeats either. He didn’t wait to see what would happen next and darted back into the shadows. Since his eyes were useless, he closed them and tensed, sharpening his other senses. It didn’t come as a surprise that he didn’t hear them approach but detected them with the strange, magical sixth sense he had developed in the last few months.
He dropped to one knee and swung his sword to the side. A cry of pain announced that his blade had found its target. The heavy thud of a body falling to the floor followed, and a moment later, a woman materialized next to him. Her hands were pressed to a wound on her side, dark-red liquid streaming from under her trembling fingers. The metallic odor of her blood permeated the air, and Cole growled, fighting the relentless thirst. His lips curved into a snarl, displaying his long fangs, but he didn’t follow his instinct. Keeping all his senses trained on the invisible opponent moving in the shadows behind him, he stilled and waited.
As he sensed her approach him from behind, he didn’t turn but thrust his sword backward. She yelped and grabbed his blade, but he didn’t let go. In one swift motion, he rose to his feet and pulled the sword out, eliciting another cry of pain out of her. Following the direction of the sound, he spun around, moving his blade parallel to the ground. The blade bit into human flesh, and something fell to the floor with a dull thud, rolling. The air shimmered, and the last woman—or rather, what was left of her—materialized in front of him. For a brief moment, her headless corpse just stood there. Then she swayed and fell to the side, a puddle of blood spreading under the body.
Without any rush, Cole wiped the blade on his blood-splattered gray scrubs and approached the only one of his attackers who was still alive. Taking a knee next to her, he seized her hair, jerking her head up. She stared at him, her anger and cockiness gone, her lips moving in a silent plea.
“Who taught you the Sisterhood fighting skills and magic?” he asked, pronouncing every word loud and clear.
“I used to be one of them,” she whispered, turning her hand to expose her wrist with the tattoo.
“It’s a nice tattoo, but it’s not the real one,” he objected without giving it as much as a second look. “Tell me the truth, and I may consider leaving you alive. Who taught you? Who gave you the recipe of their poison?”
She didn’t reply. Her eyes rolled back, and her head lolled to the side. Her heart gave a couple more weak thuds and silenced forever.
“Dammit,” Cole hissed, staring at the dead woman.
A soft shuffling noise was barely detectible, yet he heard it and rolled to the side on his shoulder, coming out of the roll to his feet. A blade hissed through the air in the place where he had stood just a moment ago. The new foe was visible just for a heartbeat and swiftly disappeared into the dark, moving as fast and soundless as he did.
A vampire? He sharpened his senses but couldn’t detect any magical energy. I can deal with a vampire—
Something impacted his Achilles tendon with a tremendous force, sending him tumbling to the floor. His fingers unlocked, and his sword fell, sliding across the concrete tiles and out of his reach. He did a kip-up, rising to his feet, but before he could make his next move, a strong arm wrapped around his neck, pressing a sharp edge of a knife to his throat. While the person who held him was tall and strong—vampire strong—he had no doubt it was a woman.
He reacted immediately. Seizing the assailant’s wrist with both hands, he raised his shoulder while pulling her arm down sharply to create a space between his throat and the blade. Tucking his chin, he slid
under her arm, escaping her hold. Still holding her hand with the knife, he stabbed her a few times in her side with her own weapon, pushing her forward. A choked scream erupted from her lips as she collapsed to the floor, clasping her wound with both hands.
Cole dropped to one knee next to her, grabbed her head and slammed it against the concrete floor. She yelped, and the scarlet glow vanished from her eyes as she lost consciousness. He yanked the ski mask off her head, and his jaw dropped, his blood running cold.
“Sylvana…” he whispered, slapping her cheek gently.
She moaned and opened her eyes. “Cole,” she whispered, a chain of emotions flashing across her face, starting with happiness and ending with horror. “What are you doing here?”
He didn’t reply. Turning her to the side, he explored the injuries he inflicted and growled, slamming his fist against the floor. As he expected, the cuts weren’t healing, bleeding profusely, and he didn’t need to guess—the knife was smeared with the Sisterhood’s poison.
“Sylvana, I’m sorry. I had no idea it was you,” he whispered. “Why did you attack me?”
He glanced down at her. The thin band of a metallic collar wrapped around her neck. He moved his hand over the collar and jerked it back, a hiss escaping his lips. Even though the collar wasn’t silver, it emitted a strange wave of magical energy. While he couldn’t identify what it was, it sent a wave of weakness through him.
“Gray stone jewelry?” he guessed, flabbergasted. “But gray stone magic doesn’t affect vampires. I don’t understand.”
She chuckled humorlessly and winced, clutching her side. “After so many years of being one of the slayers, this is the first time I’m on the receiving end of their poison… and their runic magic…”
She raised her hand, covered in dark red liquid, and pulled the collar of her shirt down, exposing a glowing rune imprinted on her chest. Cole frowned, exploring the design of the rune. While it was slightly different than the one he had seen on Santiago’s assistant’s chest, it was close enough to have the same purpose.
“You’re right,” Sylvana continued in a weak whisper. “The gray stone jewelry is just a reminder of my status. What keeps me under Amaris’ control is this.” She pointed at the rune. “Necromancy.” Large, red drops gathered in the corners of her eyes and slipped down her pale cheeks. “You have no idea what he makes me do… and there is absolutely nothing I can do to fight his control. He ordered me to fight you, Cole… I recognized you as soon as you walked in, but I—”
She cut herself off and fell silent, biting her lip, her tender face contorted by unimaginable pain.
“Sylvana, I’ll find a way to help—”
“Kill me, Cole. This is the only way you can help me. I’m begging you,” she interrupted him, her hand finding his. “I can’t live like this… I broke the sacred oath, and I’m ashamed of…” Her voice faded, her entire body shuddering with silent sobs.
“Oh, Syl, no,” he whispered.
The sound of steps reached his ears, and he fell silent, listening. Reaching over Sylvana, he grabbed her knife and straightened, raising it. She stared at him with widened eyes, red tears still running down her face, but there was no fear there. If anything, she looked relieved.
“Syl, I’m not going to kill you, but I must play my part,” he whispered so quietly, only she could hear. “Hang in there, my friend. It’ll be all right.”
He screamed, ready to plummet his blade down when the door opened with a loud bang.
“Cole Adams, stop at once!” Jeff rushed toward him, his silver-loaded gun in his hand.
With a ferocious growl rumbling in his chest, Cole jumped to his feet and bared his fangs at the guard, hoping that he was playing the blind fury convincingly enough.
“Mr. Adams, please stop.” Jeff halted a few steps away from him, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his gun trained at Cole’s head. “There has been a mistake. The guard was supposed to take you to a different location. We apologize for the inconvenience. Mr. Amaris is waiting for you.”
Cole stared at him for a few seconds. Then he dropped his knife, and it fell to the floor with a loud clang. Leisurely, he wiped his blood-splattered hands on his dirty scrubs, and a slow, lazy smile crossed his face.
“Inconvenience?” he asked, lifting his shoulders in a half shrug. “Not at all. I needed some exercise.” He glanced back, the scarlet glow vanishing from his eyes. “Too bad your little mistake cost the lives of three of your fighters.” He raked Sylvana with his gaze and added, “Nearly four.” He approached Jeff and gave him a patronizing tap on his shoulder. “Lead away.”
Chapter 18
~ Cole Adams ~
Following Jeff, Cole barely paid attention to where he was going, his mind set on everything that had just happened. It wasn’t hard to put two and two together, and he had a pretty good idea how the fake slayers came in possession of the real Sisterhood’s poison.
Centuries ago, Sylvana had been a decorated slayer, holding one of the highest positions in the Order. She knew how they operated, how they trained, as well as all the weapons and spells used by the fighters. Even after Santiago turned her, many years ago, she had never betrayed the slayers’ sacred oath, keeping all the secrets to herself. Cole wasn’t sure what kind of deal she or Santiago had struck with the Sisterhood, but the slayers had never tried to assassinate her, letting her live in peace. So, he was positive that nothing would turn Sylvana into an oath-breaker and a traitor. Nothing but necromancy.
“Right here, Mr. Adams.”
Jeff’s voice, too sweet to be genuine, sounded next to him, and Cole halted, turning toward the guard. They stood in front of a tall door without any nameplates or numbers on it, nor did it have a digital keypad.
“Please, go in,” Jeff said, pushing the door open before him. “Make yourself comfortable. Mr. Amaris will be with you momentarily.”
He waited until Cole walked inside and closed the door behind him without locking it. Cole observed the surroundings with interest. He was positive he was still in the underground bunker, but this particular room was nothing like what he’d seen before. Even though it was still windowless, the spacious chamber was furnished with comfort and luxury in mind, but a little too opulent for Cole’s taste.
A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the area with a soft electric light. A black bar with four barstools was located on his right, multiple shelves with expensive liqueurs and wines embedded into the wall above it. At the opposite end of the room, he noticed a few leather sofas and recliners. But what struck him as something unexpected was a beautiful grand piano in the center of the room.
Since there was no one in the room, Cole approached the piano and brushed his fingers over the polished surface of the musical instrument, following the curves of the design. Gently, he touched a key and closed his eyes, enjoying the clarity of the sound.
Before he realized what he was doing, he pulled the piano bench back a little and sat down. He placed his hands over the keyboard and closed his eyes. Music and reading had always been his escape from reality, and for a moment, he forgot where he was and what he was doing here. His fingers flew over the keys, his soul singing in tune with the beautiful sound this one-of-a-kind instrument produced at his touch.
“Bravo, Mr. Adams,” a male voice said somewhere behind him. “You’re quite a virtuoso.”
Tensed to the limit on the inside, Cole got up and turned around, a light smile playing on his lips. A man dressed in a black business suit and a black shirt stood a few feet away from him, his hand in the pocket of his pants. He wasn’t tall, no more than five-foot-seven, and it was impossible to guess his age since most of his face was covered by a leather mask.
“An interesting choice,” he said, approaching the piano. “Lacrimosa. The Requiem Mass in D minor by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. A little morbid, perhaps?”
“No, I don’t think so. Lacrimosa means ‘tearful’ in Latin, and I agree, it is filled wi
th sadness and internal torment. But at the same time, it is moving and powerful—the kind of power that lifts your soul… forever…” Cole glanced back at the piano with regret. “One of my favorite pieces by Mozart.”
“Fascinating.” The man chuckled. “You know that Mozart never delivered this piece,” he said softly. “He passed away before he had a chance to finish it. There is an interesting legend associated with the Requiem, you know.” He motioned for Cole to follow him and proceeded toward the bar. He circled the counter and took a bottle of whiskey off the shelf. “Please sit down. What can I get you, Mr. Adams?”
Cole lowered himself on one of the barstools and leaned to the side slightly, resting his elbow on the countertop.
“A negative, please,” he replied, observing the Head of the Arizona House with open interest. Except for the black mask, there was seemingly nothing special about this man, yet there was something unsettling in the way he moved and spoke.
Amaris took a crystal whiskey glass and moved it below the counter. He pressed something, and the metallic odor of blood permeated the air. He placed the glass filled with a thick, red liquid in front of Cole and filled another glass with whiskey.
“Legend has it that Death himself visited Mozart to place an order for the Requiem,” he said, sitting down on a stool behind the bar, his long, elegant fingers tracing the design on the glass. “It was a dark, stormy night when a stranger knocked on Mozart’s door and commissioned him to compose a Requiem. He was dressed in all black, and the hood of his long, black cloak concealed his face completely. After the visitor left, Mozart was convinced that the stranger was, indeed, Death, and he was writing the Requiem for himself…” Amaris’ lips twitched ever so slightly, and even though Cole could see only the bottom part of his face, there was a vibe of a strange satisfaction that the man exuded. “As we both know, Mozart was right. He died before he finished the Requiem.” He lifted his glass, clinking it with Cole’s. “Cheers.”
