The II AM Trilogy Collection

by Christopher Buecheler

  Matthias could hear himself screaming, but the sound was warped and distant, as if it was echoing down to him through a long hallway. He stood rooted to the ground, unable to move, unable to do anything but voice his horror. Mikel, too, was screaming, and he had leapt to his feet.

  Matthias didn’t know whether Mikel would have attacked or not, but the blonde woman didn’t give him the opportunity. Lightning quick, still crouched, she reached to a clip at her breast and pulled from it two darts, which she flung across the room in a single motion. One hit Mikel in the chest, another in the arm, and his cries became immediately strangled. He took one step toward her and pitched forward, twisting in the air as he did so, landing on his side.

  Matthias watched in horror as his fledgling’s limbs began to seize up and a great torrent of bloody foam gushed forth from his mouth. Even his eyes had begun to bleed, and he was making choked cawing noises of agony that pierced Matthias like knives.

  “Have mercy on him!” Matthias cried. Begged.

  The blonde woman, up on her feet now and striding toward Mikel’s shuddering, jerking form, glanced over her shoulder.

  “There is only one mercy for him now,” she said, and she held the blade up over her head for a moment before driving it down and into his chest, piercing Mikel’s heart and ending his pain. She stood, cleaning the blood from the blade with a dark cloth. Both humans were sobbing now, wrestling with the men that held them but making no real headway in their attempts to escape.

  “It’s a pleasure watching you work, Captain,” the black woman said, though Matthias thought he could hear distaste in her voice. The blonde favored her with a sardonic smile.

  “Thank you, Vanessa.”

  “Oh, God help me,” Matthias moaned. He was still rooted to his spot, standing now between the bodies of his two dead children, shaking and unable to move. The blonde woman turned to him.

  “There is no God,” she said. “Even if there was, He wouldn’t want anything to do with you.”

  Matthias felt a surge of rage and hatred run through him, and in that moment he almost threw himself at this woman despite her superior speed and obvious skills as a fighter. At least then it would be over; he would be dead like his children, gone to whatever afterworld awaited. He tensed and the woman tilted her head, studying him.

  Then he thought of Hell, and of the punishments that might be waiting for the things he had done in his youth, newly made a vampire and intoxicated by the power and the need for blood. The desire to fight passed, replaced by a sort of hopeless anguish, and Matthias felt his body slump. He was a coward; he knew it and could see from the blonde woman’s eyes, her smile, the set of her body, that she knew it, too.

  “Will you take my message to the council?” she asked him. “Or will I leave three dead vampires here tonight?”

  “I will deliver your message,” Matthias told her, his voice hoarse. “I will find this council, and I will tell them what happened here, and surely they will send better men than me to hunt you down.”

  The blonde woman gave him a savage grin. “Surely they will.”

  “Captain, what about these two?” the black woman, Vanessa, asked. She indicated with her gun at the two human captives.

  “They’re tainted. Put them down,” the blonde woman said, and at this the humans redoubled their struggles. The redheaded woman was weeping, saying ‘no, no, no,’ and shaking her head as if by such action she could negate what was happening.

  Vanessa’s jaw tightened for a moment at this, but then she nodded and walked over to the two of them.

  “You’re still human,” she said. “I’ll make it quick.”

  “Tanya, I love y—” the human man began, and Vanessa put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. There was a small popping noise, and most of the man’s brains came jetting out from the opposite side of his head.

  “Oh, Jesus GOD!” the red-haired woman screamed. Vanessa turned, placed the gun against her forehead, and blew the back of her head out. Matthias, who had not vomited in centuries, felt the urge to do so now and fought against it. The men who had been holding the two humans let their bodies drop.

  “Let’s go,” the blonde woman said, putting her blade into the sheath strapped at her back.

  They moved as a group toward the balcony, and Matthias watched as one by one they took hold of a rope that had been attached there and climbed over the edge. The blonde woman – the captain – was the last to go. She looked at him for a long moment, not a trace of sympathy or regret in her eyes, and then she smiled, wide and angry.

  What a terrible place her mind must be, Matthias thought to himself.

  And then she was gone, and he was alone with five bodies, two of which had been his children. Matthias felt his knees unhinge and sat on the floor just inches from the pool of Mikel’s blood. He covered his face with his hands – his stupid, cowardly hands – and began to weep.

  Chapter 3

  Time in the Ring

  Whenever Stephen or Jakob had spoken of the places they went to spar, Two had pictured something dirty and dank, poorly lit, where sweating men wrestled atop a concrete floor covered in split cardboard boxes. When she and Theroen arrived at the address that Jakob had given them, she was surprised both by the size of the building and by the amount of light streaming through its few windows.

  The building was made of steel frames and wooden slats. It was located in Elizabeth, New Jersey and sat in a giant lot filled with derelict machinery and massive, empty shipping containers. The guard at the gate had been expecting them and they had made their way through the hulking piles of metal, arriving at the club to find many other cars parked around it. When they got out of their own – a silver Porsche that Theroen had selected to “tide him over” until he could hunt down a replacement for his beloved Ferrari – they could hear nothing from inside the building.

  “It’s not what I expected,” Theroen said, and Two laughed.

  “I was just thinking the same thing. I thought it would be smaller and … grungier, I guess.”

  Theroen nodded, smiled, and gestured toward the entrance. “Shall we?”

  Inside, the building more resembled a modern gym than anything else. It was primarily a large, brightly lit open space. Two could see signs for locker rooms at the back. Weights and exercise machines sat on one side of the building, but the majority of the space was taken up with two boxing-style rings, around which sat perhaps three dozen vampires. Both rings were occupied; the combatants in the far ring were using swords, while those in the nearer ring were fighting hand to hand. Most of the crowd was focused on the sword fighters.

  A few of the vampires turned to look as Two and Theroen entered the building, but most paid them no attention. Two saw Jakob sitting on the bleachers near the sword fighters, his fledgling Sasha perched next to him and watching the fight with single-minded interest. Jakob raised his hand, stood, and came toward them. They met halfway across the floor, and he gave Two a quick embrace before shaking Theroen’s hand.

  “Welcome! Forgive the lack of hospitality from the others … this has been a particularly tight match.”

  Indeed, it seemed to Two that both combatants were equally skilled. They came at each other again and again, feinting, twisting, trying to find an opening. The vampires observing them were mostly silent, with the exception of a few shouts of encouragement.

  “Not a problem,” Theroen said. “Frankly, the less ceremony that accompanies my entrances and exits, the happier I am.”

  Jakob grinned, nodding, and beckoned them to follow him. Two and Theroen walked with him, watching the fighters and their flashing blades. Jakob pointed to the ring with the two hand-to-hand combatants.

  “Those are younger fighters,” he said. “You’ll probably draw more attention than those two just because you’re new, but don’t be offended if some in the group pay more attention to the experienced fighters.”

  “That’s fine,” Two said. “Am I going to be fighting hand-to-hand
or with swords?”

  “Your choice. Someone will be happy to challenge you in either case. I’m quite positive you’ll be picked quickly … new meat always is.”

  Two heard Theroen chuckle beside her and glanced up at him, smiling. He seemed calm and unconcerned, as always, but Two could see he was watching the swordfighters carefully.

  “They don’t wear much in the way of armor,” he said as they reached the bleachers and sat down next to Sasha. The men in the ring were both wearing jeans, and they were shirtless. The only protection on their upper bodies was a band of stiff-looking leather around each man’s neck, and more on each of their wrists.

  “The loser will bleed,” Sasha said without turning. “It’s part of the battle.”

  Two glanced at Sasha’s left arm, which had been lopped off just above the elbow in the battle with Aros’s Burilgi forces. She was not currently wearing her prosthesis, and the stump protruded out from her T-shirt sleeve.

  “Nice to see you, too, Sasha,” Two said, and the dark-haired woman looked over at her and smiled.

  “Sorry, enjoying the fight. Welcome.”

  “Thanks. I’m excited to give it a shot!”

  “I’m curious to see you fight. Jakob says you’ve become quite good.”

  “He’s probably overrating me because he’s the instructor,” Two said, and Sasha laughed.

  “He’s a good instructor. I’m sure you will do well.”

  “Merely good?” Jakob questioned, his voice filled with mock outrage, and Sasha gave him a cool glance.

  “Maybe if Two wins a couple of fights, I’ll upgrade you,” she told him, and Jakob laughed.

  The four of them let the conversation fade, paying attention to the fighters in the ring. The two men were battling in near silence, save the occasional grunt and the clang of blade on blade. Two watched their motions, studying them, trying to predict their next move.

  “The taller one is tiring,” Theroen muttered into her ear, and Two thought he was right. The man, who had cropped blonde hair, was slowing down, breathing hard. The other fighter, who had shaggy brown hair and tan skin, was shorter but faster, and he seemed gifted with more stamina. He was pressing his advantage now, and the taller fighter was being forced to expend more and more energy defending.

  The brown-haired vampire brought his sword down in an overhand swing, and the taller vampire grunted with the force of it as he blocked. He fell back a step, faltered, and it was all the advantage the shorter man needed. He lunged forward, passing his sword behind his back from right hand to left, and swung at his adversary’s abdomen. The taller vampire had no time to counter and the blade bit into his side. Several of the vampires in the audience burst into cheers.

  “Pishka’tah!” the injured vampire roared, dropping to one knee, and it seemed to Two that the shout came more from anger than pain. The word was a sort of mild profanity in the vampire language, translating literally to “forsaken blood,” but used mostly in the way an American might say “damn it.”

  “Do you yield?” the shorter vampire asked. He had pulled his sword from the wound and stood now in a ready stance.

  “Aye, God’s ba’s,” the other man said in a thick Scottish accent. “Yeh wore me down, Ric.”

  “You almost had me at the beginning,” Ric said. He stepped over and reached out his hand.

  “Lot of good it did me,” replied the taller man, taking Ric’s hand and standing up. Blood was pouring from his side, and Two could see someone entering the ring with bandages.

  “Good fight, Calum,” Ric said, clapping the blonde vampire on the shoulder and heading for his corner.

  “Yer, good fight,” Calum said, and with the help of the other man he made his way out of the ring.

  “Still want to do this?” Jakob asked Two.

  “Yes,” Two said after a moment’s hesitation. “I think so. What the hell, right? Didn’t come all the way out here just to sit around.”

  “Did you bring clothes?”

  “Yep. I’ll go change. Hon? Theroen? Will you be all right here?”

  “I’ll be fine,” Theroen said, giving her his calm smile. “Go do what you need to do.”

  Two glanced at the ring, where several towels had been tossed to mop up the blood. They were stained crimson. She took a deep breath and headed for the locker room.

  * * *

  Two’s name had been on the list for less than four minutes before someone challenged her, and when next the beginner’s ring was cleared, she found herself standing in front of an Ay’Araf vampire she had never met. She was wearing a pair of black sweatpants and a tank top, and she held her sword in her hand as Jakob strapped leather cuffs around her wrists and neck.

  “These give some protection to the bigger veins,” he explained, and Two nodded.

  “I figured.”

  “Are you nervous?”

  “Yes, but I keep telling myself it can’t be any worse than that time you almost cut off my boob.”

  “I told you that was an accident,” Jakob said, laughing slightly.

  “Didn’t make it hurt any less!”

  “Indeed.”

  “Mostly I just want to do well. I don’t want to fuck up your reputation, or mine.”

  “You won’t. Just do as you’ve been taught.”

  “That’s the plan,” Two said.

  The vampire across from her had introduced himself as Mike Takahashi. A third-generation Japanese American, he looked to be in his twenties, but was actually closer to forty. He had come to training late for an Ay’Araf but had been studying sword fighting for nearly five years.

  Mike was not tall, but Jakob had warned her that he had surprising reach for his height and was extremely agile. He would try to get her off balance by using a lot of feints and switching hands frequently.

  “You’re stronger than him,” Jakob said, murmuring close to her ear. “Likely faster, too. Your instincts are better. That should make up for the difference in training. Don’t bite on the fakes and wait until you have the right opening, then get him on his heels like Ricardo did to Calum.”

  “Yessir,” Two said.

  “Don’t forget to keep your guard up, and remember that there’s nothing wrong with backing away or—”

  “Jakob, I got it,” Two said, cutting him off. She smiled at him, thumped her left fist against her chest twice – an Ay’Araf salute – and made a shooing gesture. “Go sit down.”

  Jakob bit off whatever he had been about to say, nodded, and made his way toward the edge of the ring.

  “That dude is brutal,” Mike commented. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose. I bet you’re good.”

  Two shrugged. If he was probing her for information, he wasn’t going to get any. “You ready?” she asked.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Mike gave her a quick salute with his sword and fell into a defensive stance. Two did the same. She heard the crowd around the ring go quiet. Jakob had been right: her match was drawing a lot more interest than the other juvenile fighters had. She hoped she could give them all a good show.

  “Tenor Ay’Araf!” Mike shouted, and he sprang forward, going for an immediate and obvious slashing attempt at her right arm. Two parried it easily, sidestepping, staying on the balls of her feet. She brought her sword around in a wide arc, aiming for his back, but Mike jerked out of the way. He feinted left and, despite Jakob’s earlier warning, Two bit on it, moving her sword to parry a blow that wasn’t coming. Mike switch his sword from one hand to the other in a single, fluid motion and swung backhand at her unprotected right side.

  “Shit!” Two cried, springing backward and twisting her body, avoiding the blow by less than an inch. Mike grinned.

  “Almost!” he said.

  “No rewards for ‘almost,’” Two replied.

  She circled him, blade held out, waiting. Mike gathered himself and stepped back toward her. He tried the left feint again, but this time Two was ready for it and held her blade steady. She par
ried again, spun, and faked a forward lunge. Mike brought his blade crashing down in front of him, but Two came instead from the side. Off balance, he was still able to switch his blade from hand to hand again and stop her attack. They separated for a moment.

  “Don’t press,” Jakob called from the stands. Two ignored him. She knew what to do; the hard part was managing to avoid being carved up while she waited for an opportunity.

  For the next five minutes, the fight went back and forth in a series of unspectacular but technically solid exchanges. Two advanced, Mike parried and returned. Mike went on the attack and Two defended, the blades clanging against each other. She felt warm and loose now, breathing easy, comfortable in her body. Stephen had left her with a “maintenance” training regimen intended to keep her at her peak physical form – Two rarely strayed from it, working out for an hour every evening when she woke up.

  She had not identified any flaws in Mike’s form, though she was sure Jakob could have given her a laundry list of them. Instead, she thought she had found a problem with his approach; he was almost too textbook. It was a sort of dance: she stepped here, he stepped there, and she had to make the next step. If she could find a way to break that up, to step somewhere she shouldn’t be or swing her sword in a direction that wasn’t expected, she thought she might be able to get him off balance.

  Mike wasn’t giving her a lot opportunity to plan, constantly moving forward into her space. His strategy at this point was plain: be the aggressor, make her expend all of her effort on defense, keep her off balance. He seemed comfortable, and comfort was not something she wanted him to be feeling.

  She parried another of his blows and sprung sideways, swinging her left arm outward. Using the leather band on her wrist, she hit Mike’s blade directly, knocking it aside. For the first time in the battle, he looked surprised by her actions, and it was only with a desperate and lucky effort that he was able to parry her next blow. Undaunted, Two refused to let Mike regain his footing. She slid her blade down the length of his sword, aiming at his hands, forcing him to let go of the hilt with his left and pull the blade away, leaping backward.