Children of the Night

by Zan Safra

  But the rest of them converge on Yurei. I throw another moroi away from me and run for him. “Leave him alone!”

  A blast of heat envelops me and smashes me off my feet. I barely miss a machine as I strike the floor. An alchemist lowers a glowing gauntlet, grinning. The grin falls from his face when I lift him up and fling him across the chamber. I run for Yurei again and stagger. I am weakening. I am spending too much volta.

  “Yurei! Yurei!”

  I cannot see him amidst the moroi. I grab the nearest metal, the components I sense inside the nearest machine. I tear, ripping the entire device free of its vines, but I have no strength left to throw it. It does not matter. Sparks burst from the device. Torn vines flail, snatching at the air like tentacles. Every moroi jerks to a halt. Andreas frees himself from the crowd. His gaze is clear. His face is panicked. He screams at me with everything in him. “Run, Belle!”

  The flailing vines slap onto new machines, their severed ends merging with them. Rivers of glyphs race through them again. Andreas’ look of fear turns to rage. He draws his pistols.

  I push myself up. My hands flatten against the marble and I sense something more. The stone is thin. Beneath it is a web of wooden beams, and iron braces pinning them together.

  Andreas levels both pistols at my head. More moroi come for me, their faces locked in identical expressions of fury. My volta is so weak that I do not know whether this last movement will kill me. But I have no choice.

  I send a last pulse of volta through my hands. Beams creak and groan as the metal braces rip out of the wood. The floor shivers. A great crack splits the marble. A heartbeat later the entire floor crumbles and drops me into the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ayanda

  THE GOLDEN LIGHT OF the Palaso Ducale glitters on painted masks and sequins as Jette and I approach, the false invitations in our hands. The costumed Naturals around us crowd like a flock of giant twittering birds, flashing brilliant colors and plumes. My damned costume stifles me, the battle dress and armor underneath it crushing me like some torture device. Jette looks just as discomfited, tugging at her scarf. She’s hardly spoken since we left the Palaso Rurico.

  I understand. I can think of nothing to say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. This isn’t the time for idle conversation.

  We continue up the marble staircase. The cold strength of the Dead grows with every step I take. I haven’t felt such strength since I left Don Giacomo’s court. There were a hundred vampires there at the very least. Here there are more. The feeling of guiding is tremendous, as though I’m a ship at the edge of a heavy chain, slowly reeled in. It comes from beneath the ground.

  A huge mass of the Dead roils under our feet.

  Jette asks at that precise moment, “Are there many of them here?”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Below.”

  She lowers her voice. “What of the fiend?”

  I shiver, hoping that she doesn’t see. I feel the hawser, the connection between me and the fiend, taut. It leads into the Palace. “She’s here.”

  We inch up the stairs. By the time we reach the landing I’m ready to scream. Even the red-dressed footmen are costumed and masked, but beneath the patterns of their garments I see something more. It’s though I can see through them, to the very web of their veins. Every vessel pulses with a rotten black shine, Dead blood. Every single footman is a moroi.

  The pair of guests ahead of us flourish their invitations at the nearest footman. He nods and silently motions for them to pass. Then it’s our turn.

  I struggle to meet his eyes. I wonder if the fiend’s looking out of them as I hold out my invitation. Jette thrusts hers at him like a poisonous snake. The moroi seems taken aback, but he glances at the invitation and motions for us to proceed, into the Palace.

  The crowd sweeps us down a wide hall. I’d likely be impressed if I took the time to gaze about, but all I see is a whirl of gilt, white marble, brilliant paintings. I don’t care to look more closely. I can only see moroi. Every palace servant and even a smattering of guests burn with Dead blood. There are tens. Dozens. Hundreds.

  Jette walks beside me, but the ridiculous billowing costume won’t allow me to come close enough to whisper a warning. The knowledge boils within me. I feel ready to quiver out of my skin.

  I wish Yurei were here…

  I wish I were in his arms again. I felt so protected, so safe, and when we gazed at each other I thought he meant to…and I wanted so badly for him to…

  I give myself an inward slap. I’ve no time for that now. We’ve a vampire to kill.

  We pass through a set of grand doors and into the ballroom. The huge chamber blazes like a gem-encrusted cavern. The noise of the crowd and orchestra fills my ears. Naturals meander, dancers whirl, and masked musicians play as Jette and I edge away from the column of entering guests, out of the current. Even more men and women crowd the walls, seated on velvet chairs and chattering, and in an adjoining grand chamber even more guests gather around card tables, sipping wine. We find our way to an empty corner in the shadow of a towering potted lucifern tree. Jette glances about, eyes flitting from mask to mask. Even amidst the noise her whisper seems painfully loud. “Is she here?”

  The hawser is tight. The fiend is so near that I can feel emotions rippling down the connection: tension, anticipation, glee.

  “Yes,” I whisper. “She’s here.”

  I search the ballroom. The crowd is so thick that it’s impossible to see more than a few paces. I feel the connection moving as the fiend travels about the ballroom, clearly in disguise. I give Jette the slightest nod. We make our way through the crowd, slowly, as though we’re simply wandering through the hall. I let the connection guide me, until suddenly we come to its source.

  A man in red and gold silks stands in the center of a gaggle of Naturals, laughing at some joke. He seems old, leaning on a decorated cane, his golden mask and embroidered hat too large for his frame. His finery and the guests surrounding him prove who he must be. The Doge of Venice.

  But he isn’t the Doge at all. The hawser leads directly to him. Moroi hover about him, scattered through the crowd but still close at hand, eyeing him like sentinels.

  I watch the fiend, every nerve trembling. Of course she would disguise herself as the Doge. Whom else would she choose?

  “Is that her?” Jette mutters.

  I nod. We retreat, slipping through the crowd, keeping her in sight. Most of those around her aren’t moroi, but they show no unease when they speak to her, no suspicion. She speaks and laughs like the rest, her gestures utterly natural, utterly human.

  It makes sense. She’s hidden here for months, more than enough time to perfect her disguise. God only knows what’s become of the true Doge.

  Sweat soaks my scarf as we wait, meandering like the rest of the Naturals. Andreas must be hiding somewhere nearby, but I’ve no way to find or signal him. We can only wait.

  Jette falters, swaying on her feet. I catch her shoulder to steady her. She blinks at me, her gaze foggy. Worry grips me. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” She blinks again, hard. “I am well.”

  I’ve no time to ask her more. The connection that binds me to the fiend thins, rippling. The false Doge freezes like a broken automaton. The Dead blood inside the surrounding moroi flickers, its glow fading. The costumed men turn, looking about like sleepwalkers, just as they did when I stabbed the fiend at the Academia.

  Then it ends. The Doge begins to speak, reassuring the confused guests. The Dead blood consumes the moroi again.

  But something did happen. Something disrupted the fiend’s hold.

  My heart begins to race. The distraction. Yurei and Belle have begun.

  The false Doge excuses himself with a courteous nod, leaving the guests. The moroi follow him at a distance as he crosses the ballroom and disappears through an ornate door.

  “Now,” Jette hisses.

  We follow her, as
quickly as we can without bowling anyone over. We slip past a pair of moroi footmen and out of the ballroom, into another grand corridor. A thinner crowd of guests mills about, dainty plates and wineglasses in hand. The false Doge is out of sight but the connection binding us is still strong. I know where to go.

  The last of the guests ignore us as we rush past them. I spot an empty side corridor and nudge Jette. We hurry to it, out of sight of the hall. Cooler air sweeps over me as I rip off the smothering mask. Jette wrestles out of her gown, adjusting her bandolier and the black tunic of a battle dress like mine. She unbuckles her staff. I unlock my glaive.

  We run down the corridor. The connection pulls me to the right, strengthening, freezing my heart. We charge up a grand staircase, into an empty corridor. We’re nearly there. Andreas should be at our heels. Yurei and Belle are ahead. This is the moment. Now.

  We crash through a carved door. The room beyond is beautiful, cavernous, and empty.

  We turn about, weapons raised, alone. The room is bare, without even a stick of furniture, and not even the Room of the Four Doors. There’s no sign of Yurei or Belle.

  “I expected you sooner.”

  We whirl. The towering kudlak stands between us and the door, a long slash of black.

  I bring up my glaive. Jette raises her staff like a sword. Footsteps surround us. Moroi slip into the chamber. Hidden panels open in the walls and more of them slink out, lining the walls, blocking any escape. Grins flash across their faces, gruesomely wide, white teeth shining in the moonlight.

  The fiend approaches, gliding around us like a circling cobra, garments slithering over the marble. We turn with her. I feel the cold eyes of the moroi upon me, their biting grins.

  I feel the kudlak’s hidden gaze, the stare of a hunting animal. Emotion ripples through the connection between us, one that freezes my heart.

  Triumph.

  “I regret I could not witness your display,” she says, each word, each syllable meticulously pronounced. “I expect it would have been impressive.”

  My heart stops. Every wisp of air leaves the room. Only one word rings in my head. No.

  “What have you done with them?” Jette quavers.

  “They are well and safe.”

  Jette explodes. Her voice distorts as she screams, “Liar!”

  A wave of color races over her skin. She squeezes shut her eyes, teeth gritted in pain.

  The moroi begin to laugh, an impossible, horrible sound, each bark in perfect unison, one monster with a hundred mouths.

  “This ruse bores me.” The fiend’s voice is languid, cold. “Does it not tire you as well? To hide yourself inside a pitiful child?”

  Jette glances at me. I can’t stop my own voice from trembling. “Don’t listen to her. She’s mad.”

  Jette’s face twists in pain. “I can bloody well see that!”

  I hear the fiend’s misshapen smile. “Your trust is misplaced.”

  “Oh?” Jette spits. “Am I meant to trust you instead?”

  The fiend stops circling. “You will.”

  A shriek of rage rips from Jette’s throat. Black and gray sweep over her, staining her hair and skin. She bares her teeth and charges at the kudlak, ignoring me as I scream for her to stop—

  Jette halts, but not on account of my scream. She strains against some force that stops her, as though caught by some invisible leash. The colors vanish. She staggers, herself again, staring at her pale hands, bewildered.

  “You will transform,” the fiend drawls, “only when I allow it.”

  Jette’s head snaps up. The fiend chuckles, a hideous croak. “You Scotians do so love your tea.”

  Jette covers her mouth, horror dawning in her eyes. A violent shudder rattles her, knocking the staff from her hand. She tears off her gloves. Blackened veins stain her wrists.

  I can’t speak. No. No, it’s impossible, impossible—

  Jette screams. She doubles over, holding her head. I run to her. A black glow forks through her body, burning under her skin like veins of lava.

  The fiend begins to laugh.

  “Jette!” I catch her shoulders, trying to straighten her. She shoves me away. “Run!”

  Flashes of color rush over her, back and forth. She screams in Scotian, words I can’t understand. “Stop, get out, get—”

  Her voice cuts away. The black shine of Dead blood fills her veins. She hugs herself, trembling, tears falling from her eyes.

  “Jette?” I whisper.

  She gives no answer. Her arms unfold and she straightens, hanging her head, silent.

  In a single whirl she rips a grenade from her bandolier and smashes it against the floor between us. Fog pours from the broken glass, a tremendous bank enveloping me, filling the room in moments, turning it to a frigid moor.

  I spin about and see nothing but fog, hear nothing but my ragged breaths. “Jette?”

  “You are alone.”

  The fiend’s voice comes from every direction, emanating from the fog itself. “I took everything from you once. Now I have taken it again.”

  “Stop!”

  “Do you remember that? Did you ever believe it would be me? Did you think I forgave you?”

  “Stop!”

  My voice echoes through the whirling fog. “You’re mad!” I scream. “I’ve nothing to do with you! Why can’t you—"

  A shadow flits in the corner of my eye. A staff strikes the back of my knee, buckling my leg. I jam the butt of my glaive into the floor, steadying myself before I fall. The shadow vanishes.

  “Jette!” I stumble about. A tingling numbs my leg. “Jette, don’t—”

  The head of a staff punches into my back and throws me down. Pain chokes me. I drag myself up, my numbed leg quavering beneath me. “You can’t fight me!” I scream. “You haven’t the strength as you are!”

  A hiss darts straight into my ear. “I don’t need strength to contend with you.”

  Another blow strikes my shoulder and knocks me about. Numbness races down my arm. My hold on my glaive loosens. I trip and fall against a marble wall, turning just as a glass grenade flies out of the mist and at my face.

  I hurl myself out of the way. The explosion throws me forward. I run from the scorched wall, into the mist, numb, blind, and nearly slam into a moroi. He stands in my way, grin inhumanly wide.

  I back away and run. A woman appears, smiling. Another blocks my path. Moroi appear from every direction, stopping me at every turn. I have my glaive, I could cleave them each in two, but I can’t, they’re innocent—

  I whirl about. “Is this all you can do? Hide behind your slaves?” I scream into the fog. “Face me, kudlak! Come out, you wretched—”

  A blow like a cannon shot rams into my jaw. Jette barrels into me and throws us both down, her transformed face snarling inches from mine. Her fist clamps around my throat. Her other hand holds a glass bolt filled with Dead blood.

  She stabs it at my neck. I catch her wrist, straining to force her hand away, but she’s stronger than I am, far too strong—

  I claw at the hand around my throat. Jette slams my head against the marble. The bolt bears as she forces it towards my throat, its needle tip scratching my skin—

  I jerk her wrist sideways. Bone splits. She screams. I shove her away and clamber up, snatching my glaive from the floor. Jette retreats, holding her bloody, broken wrist, splinters of bone protruding through her fingers.

  She raises her eyes, white and blazing beneath her brows, and releases her wrist. The broken bones snap together and the bloody wound seals. She rushes me again. I move first and slam my fist into her middle. She reels. I run into the mist, shoving moroi out of my way. A moonlit window appears.

  I look back. Moroi advance. Jette’s shadow forms, running at me with a rabid scream.

  I smash the glass and vault over the sill. Saltwater crushes me with cold. I claw my way to the canal’s surface and suck in a gasp of air. Mist pours out of the
broken window three stories above me. No one emerges.

  Water or sweat or tears pour into my eyes, smearing the world. My teeth chatter. My tingling limbs feel half-dead. I splash through the canal, half-blind until my hand knocks into the wooden post of a water-gate. I cling to it and rest my head against the stone steps. I can’t think, I can’t do a thing, my blood races with fear but my brain is so—

  A hand grips my wrist. The blinding water drips away as someone hauls me out of the canal. I stumble onto the water-gate and come face-to-face with Andreas.

  He smiles at me, veins of Dead blood glowing under his skin. “You look a fright, Ayanda,” he says. “A rest at home would do you good.”

  His hand is a blur. In a heartbeat there’s a cloth against my face, a stinging smell, then nothing but night.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ayanda

  THE WARMTH OF A fire wraps around me. Voices mutter, gnawing at the curtains of darkness. Memories leak through the gaps, trickling, pouring, drowning me anew—

  Andreas. Belle. Jette. Yurei…

  Yurei…

  A screaming sob rips out of me. Arms and wings embrace me, Madrina murmurs in my ear, It’s all right, picola, you’re safe now…the tincture, Andreas, quickly…

  No, I scream, no, not him, not Andreas, he’s not…

  A spoon pours bitter liquid into my mouth. I fall into blackness…

  And then I’m awake.

  I snap upright with a gasp. I sit in my bed, dressed in a nightgown, wrapped in a woolen blanket. The hearth burns faintly, shrunken to embers. On my desk my pocket-watch ticks, wound-down and uneven, as though something’s gone wrong with time itself.

  A nightmare. It must have been. I dreamed everything went wrong, so terribly wrong, and that everyone…

  Something stings my neck as I slide from the bed. I touch it, tracing a cut with my fingertips.

  The scratch of a needle.