Resistance (Dark Realm Series)

by Mason, Patricia

  "Stop," I yelled and then castigated myself for the stupid futility of such a command.

  I hoisted myself over the roof's edge and climbed down. But with his head start, the dark figure had already descended about two thirds of the way, so I fired a shot. The bullet missed him and ricocheted off the cobbles below. He stopped and glanced up. I could have sworn on my dog-eared copy of The Art of War that the bastard grinned at me before leaping two at a time down the remaining few steps. Once at the bottom, he turned right and dashed off.

  Realizing he'd soon be lost without drastic action, I stopped at the next landing between flights, shoved the pistol into my waistband and scrambled over the metal rail. With my butt leaning there for a few seconds, I gulped in a last lung full of air before leaping the remaining distance to the ground.

  The impact on the cobbles sent a jolt through my legs and flung me forward. Falling into a roll saved my head from impact but my shoulders took the brunt of the bruising force. As I turned end over end the gun came loose, fell from my pants and skittered away. The pistol came to rest at the same time I did but it was well out of my reach. For a moment I lay collecting myself, my cheek resting in a gooey substance with the consistency of troll snot.

  When the dark figure stopped, whirled, and stood staring at me for a moment, I didn't know whether to be happy or not. At least he wasn't getting away, right? But then he began to stalk, in a haughty swagger, back in my direction and I settled on not happy. Not at all happy. He'd be on me in a moment's time if I didn't do something quickly.

  Pulling myself upright, I spotted the gun and then scrambled towards it.

  I took my eyes off him for only a second as I reached down, but it was enough. With unnatural quickness he pounced, hitting me like a runaway carriage and taking me down. For a moment I lay squashed on the ground before I managed to shove and wriggle my way from under him.

  The male had at least six inches of height and one hundred pounds of muscle on me but I was quicker and could use leverage. At least that was what I told myself as we grappled with one another in the dirty street. What bollocks. I needed a weapon to truly have an advantage even if he was a human. And I suspected he wasn't.

  Finally, I managed to wrestle about until I'd pinned him beneath me, straddling his waist. Or perhaps he'd allowed me to pin him because I wasn't anywhere near strong enough to force him into this position.

  "Enough foolishness, girl," the male said from beneath me in a calm voice, confirming my suspicion. "Do you not think me capable of subduing you physically should I choose to exert my superior strength?"

  "It seems to me that I am in the superior position here," I bluffed.

  "Only because I choose for you to be." His dangerous half smile sent a chill through me. A chill and an almost electric volt of something else...Sexual awareness.

  Oh no.

  The male wasn't a ghoul. The night might be too black to determine the exact color of his eyes but not so dark that I couldn't tell they weren't glowing yellow. Nor did he have a row of sharp shark-like teeth. The male seemed human in many ways but the quickness with which he moved. Not quite fast enough for me to be certain he wasn't human but just enough for there to be a question.

  Rolling off him, I jumped to my feet and inched to the side until I reached the gun. Grabbing it up and pointing the muzzle at the male didn't alleviate my unease. I suspected he might be able to remove the weapon from my grip with no problem at all. The spark of laughter in his eyes, not to mention the sly up-curve of the corner of his mouth, conveyed his confidence that he could easily disarm me.

  What was he?

  A clatter on the cobbles signaled an arrival. I glanced to my left and saw Driscoll limping into view with Cam at his side.

  "We heard a shot and—" Driscoll began.

  "Father," Cam shouted.

  The boy dashed forward toward my nemesis and embraced him as he gave a whoop of laughter. The male responded with a happy baritone chuckle of his own.

  "Are you all right?" Cam pulled back slightly and seemed to search the male's face.

  "I am unhurt as you see." The male said before he clapped his big arms around Cam pulling him into another hug. Over the boy's shoulder, the male met my gaze. His eyes taunted me with silent mirth.

  "You're his father?" I asked.

  "Yes." Nodding, he pulled away from Cam. The male stepped toward me with hand outstretched. "I'm called Marlowe."

  Thinking of all he, Marlowe, had put me through—from the pub all the way to rolling around with him on the street— I brought out my hand too. However, I made mine into a fist. After drawing my fist back, using every bit of power I had, I threw an uppercut to Marlowe's jaw.

  * * * * *

  After that Marlowe used his charm to subdue eveyone...well, not everyone since I didn't find him charming. Mocking? Arrogant? Irritating? Yes, yes, yes. Charming? No. But my opinion was immediately discounted.

  When I'd punched him, his head had whipped to the side with the impact. But instead of punching me back or shouting angry insults, Marlowe had only offered me a smile accompanied by a small baritone chuckle. A disturbingly attractive chuckle.

  Driscoll had succumbed first to the maddening man's charms. In the flurry of male bonding, my suggestion of blindfolding Marlowe and Cam for the journey back to Resistance HQ was ignored. And despite my ire, or perhaps because of it, Driscoll led us into the mansion through the front door rather than entering through the nearby church and taking the indirect—and therefore more secure—passage through the underground catacombs. With me muttering complaints, we marched through the entry hall and then up the main staircase.

  Some remnants of the building's former opulence had survived like the bones of a human skeleton after the flesh has decayed and fallen away. For instance, the white marble under our feet with its faint black veins still gleamed, but the oriental carpets that covered it were worn to the point of tatter. The ballroom that served as the main office had an ornate chandelier at the center of a coved ceiling painted with a depiction of the birth of Venus. However, the original furnishings had been stripped and in their place were tables, desks, and chairs scattered about.

  Only a few officers and guards were there. Troops I'd have expected to see about the place were missing. They must be out on a mission, I theorized.

  At the far end of the room, General Margaret Thatcher loomed over a mahogany desk examining a map. From the top of her gunmetal grey bouffant to her beige pumps the general was a woman of imposing size and presence even in her tweed suit and pearls.

  "General Thatcher," I called to her as I rushed past my companions. Surely, the no-nonsense stern leader, who I admired, would take control of this mess with her iron fist.

  "General," Driscoll interrupted me. "We have survivors from the Hampshire Section."

  "You don't know that," I said through clenched teeth.

  "I do know that," Driscoll shouted. "And don't think I've forgotten your insubordination. Corporal Amy."

  "You're a horse's arse—and a cowardly arse at that!" My shout echoed off the ceiling.

  "Both of you," the general scolded. "I will not have two soldiers squabbling and insulting each other like recalcitrant children, particularly in front of guests." She turned a critical eye on Marlowe and Cam.

  Marlowe stepped forward, his mouth widening into a grin, which exhibited every one of his straight, white teeth. "Is this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium?"

  Huh?

  "General Thatcher." Marlowe held out his hand. "Your fame as a strategist precedes you, but no one told us in Hampshire how regally beautiful you are."

  Ridiculous. The general despised false flattery.

  When the general placed her hand in his, instead of gripping it into a handshake, Marlowe brought it to his lips and brushed her knuckles with his sensuous lips.

  He's stepped in it now. I almost laughed just imagining the mayhem the general would wreak on the sad bli
ghter's head.

  But to my surprise, General Thatcher's stern, tight-lipped expression melted away, softening into a pleased smile and she emitted a sound I'd never heard and never thought to hear. She giggled.

  After that the only concession to protocol was that Cam was taken to another room to be debriefed so his story could be compared to his father's for consistency later. But Marlowe effortlessly turned his own debriefing into a tea party, complete with cups of Earl Grey.

  Driscoll poured a dollop of milk into one cup before adding the tea. When he thrust it toward me, the contents slopped over the cup's rim onto the saucer. I had a difficult time avoiding the temptation to knock it from his hand.

  The thought that we'd allowed an enemy to invade our territory and dwell amongst us so easily nagged at me. But what could I do? If even the general was smitten, what hope was there?

  I decided to give the interview a more interrogational tone. Perhaps under some hard questioning, the general would see we had a potential double agent in our midst.

  "Well, Mr. Marlowe McAlvy—" I began.

  "My surname is Marlowe," he corrected.

  My eyes narrowed on him. "You say you're Cam's father but you don't have his surname?"

  Now as he mentioned the difference in their last names several other inconsistencies struck me. Not only did Marlowe appear much too young to be a teenager's father—no more than twenty-five—but also their looks were vastly different. Cam's hair was a curly blond and his eyes emerald green, whereas Marlowe's straight hair gleaming inky black and his eyes were like the dark swift waters of the English Channel. A Greek sculptor could have chiseled Cam's face and figure. Marlowe, by contrast, wasn't classically handsome. His features were much too angular for that, his physique too powerful. Yet, I had to admit Marlowe had a palpable charisma that could almost make you think he was the most gorgeous man you'd ever seen.

  "I adopted Cam when he was a toddler," Marlowe answered, his brown eyes appraising me for my response.

  "Adopted?" The outrage in my question was palpable. I suppose I was too sensitive because I'd been adopted.

  The general spiked me with a sharp glance. "Adoption is to be admired, particularly in these dangerous times. We must all band together as we may."

  Brilliant. I had managed to turn the general into Marlowe's advocate.

  I tempered my tone. "Well, Mr. Marlowe?"

  "Please," he interrupted again. "Just Marlowe." He reclined in his seat and cocked his head to one side.

  "You only use one name?" I asked.

  "Vanity I know," he said, shrugging. "Insisting upon one name is a most self-aggrandizing affectation."

  A bark of laughter escaped from Driscoll, which I quelled with a narrow eyed glare.

  "You came to us from Hampshire I understand." The general held out a plate of biscuits in offering.

  Marlowe smiled and selected one before taking a bite. After chewing with obvious enjoyment, he swallowed. "Mmmm. These are most delicious."

  The general smiled. "I'm so happy you like them. The recipe—"

  "You claim to be from the Hampshire section." No one was supposed to interrupt the general, but I couldn't help myself. The general glared at me but I continued, "But the prince's rifle regiment wiped them out a month ago. How do we know you are who you say?"

  "I admit there is no one left to confirm my words." Marlowe glanced from me to the general, seeming amused by the byplay. "My son and I are the last free survivors."

  "Why didn't you just tell me who you were on the rooftop?" I questioned.

  "You were pointing a gun at me," Marlowe answered. "You can be very intimidating."

  I snorted. "Ha."

  "You did shoot at me and throw that haymaker." Marlowe rubbed at his face with one hand.

  Oh right. I bet my knuckles hurt more than his jaw. He hadn't been at all afraid of my little gun or intimidated by me. Nevertheless, I could tell from their nodding heads the others accepted his excuse.

  I tried another tack. "If you're one of the good guys, then why did you let the Amalgam use your cloak to ambush us?"

  "I never said I was a good guy. Although I am good at many things," Marlowe said with another enticing chuckle. The others chuckled with him.

  Brilliant. He'd manipulated them, twisting them all around his elegantly long fingers in under an hour. What was it about this man? They all seemed almost drugged by his charming presence. All that is except me. At that moment, Marlowe turned his penetrating attention on me. For a moment I was lost in the depths of his eyes almost as if I were lost in a fog. Swaying, I stumbled before mentally slapping myself back to alertness.

  Marlowe's mouth slanted into a brief smile and he gave a half nod, half shrug as if to say he'd almost got me.

  What was he? Some older vampires could exert a kind of hypnotic "glamouring" effect. He didn't have the pallor of a vampire and I'd seen his grinning teeth enough to know he didn't have fangs. He ate human food. And his body definitely wasn't cold. I'd determined that much when I'd straddled him during our wrestling match.

  Heat invaded my cheeks and I realized I must be blushing just thinking about lying against Marlowe's hard muscular body. Lord. What was wrong with me?

  Looking down and away from those hypnotic eyes I posed the question again. "So why did you let the Amalgam use your cloak?"

  "As I approached Fenwick's shop from the front, the ravens attacked and drove me away." Marlowe sat straight up in his chair and placed the teacup and saucer he'd been holding on the desk. "The birds herded me some two blocks past to where a ghoul awaited. While I battled the ghoul, the birds escaped with my cloak."

  "And what happened to the ghoul?" I asked.

  Marlowe smirked. "I dispatched him, naturally."

  "Naturally," I glanced up and his eyes met mine. At his gaze I flushed and looked away.

  "By the time I returned to the shop I saw the two of you leading my son away." Marlowe sipped his tea before continuing. "Not knowing who or what you were I followed at a distance."

  "Sensible," the general said with an approving nod.

  Truly? Was I the only one that could see this Marlowe was a liar? Smooth, but a liar nonetheless. I wondered whether my reaction to him was a result of the fact that he had adopted Cam. But why would a young and virile man like Marlowe adopt a toddler? Could there be any good reason? Cam seemed to love him but what was Marlowe's ulterior motive for his actions? There had to be one.

  "I think Marlowe has given adequate explanation," the general suddenly interjected. She stood and motioned to a guard stationed at her back. "Show our guest and his son to rooms so they may freshen up and rest."

  "What?" I asked outraged and then at the general's angry expression I backtracked. "What I mean is, there are a few more topics we need to cover. We haven't talked about what brought Marlowe and his son to London after the extermination of the Hampshire Section. We don't even know his rank."

  "My son was a private," Marlowe replied. "I didn't seek rank. I acted as a consultant."

  "A consultant? What does that mean? What did you consult about?" I demanded.

  "That is utterly unimportant." Marlowe frowned. "You should be concerned about what Prince Leopold is up to and why his workers are transporting large patches of the Hampshire countryside to London."

  Just as I was about to respond, a commotion near the entrance to the room diverted my attention. A gasping fighter stumbled in, spotted with dirt and blood. Four other equally blood-spattered soldiers entered the room behind him.

  "Sergeant Riley," the general said. "What's happened?"

  Riley was our resident weapons maker. Although bombs were his specialty, he could fashion anything out of common household products. As a result of his expertise, Riley didn't fight on the front lines. He planted his bombs and retreated to fire them off at an opportune time. For him to be battle scarred like this meant our mission had gone shambolic.

  "The prince's guard was waiting for us," Sergeant Riley mana
ged to choke out. "We were ambushed before we reached the target."

  "How many casualties?" the general demanded.

  "Only the five of us returned," Riley replied inclining his head toward the others.

  "But you were a force of thirty." The general shook her head sadly. "So many killed."

  "No," Riley contradicted. "The prince's ghoul guard took care not to actually kill us. They seemed intent on capture. Twenty-five of us were taken."

  "Then we must mount a rescue." The general pounded her fist against the palm of her other hand.

  Riley shook his head. "I don't know what will be left of them to rescue."

  "What do you mean? Be plain, man."

  "Bring in Hoskins," Sergeant Riley directed.

  A female soldier stepped forward dragging a comrade. The comrade trudged in our direction taking stiff-legged steps with a blank expression, open-mouthed and drooling.

  "Zombies," Sergeant Riley said. "They're making our people into zombies."

  Chapter Five

  "Supreme excellence consists of breaking the enemy's resistance without fighting."

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  The section's medic peered into Hoskins' right eye through a magnifying glass as I stood over his shoulder shining a pinpoint light into its depths. The medic had already examined Hoskins' other eye, his ears, his nose and his mouth, with lights and various probes. Through it all, the victim said nothing. He just stared, with eyes dead of expression, breathing heavily through his mouth.

  Inexplicably, the general had sent Marlowe to help us. I suppose he was "helping" by holding up the wall of the clinic by lounging against it for the last ten minutes. But if Marlowe was the picture of nonchalance, Sergeant Riley hovered like a nervous father waiting for his wife to give birth.

  I hadn't introduced Marlowe to the medic. The medics in our section had a tendency to die pretty quickly after recruitment. By now I'd stopped bothering to even learn their names. Less emotion to suppress when they were gone. One of the medic's predecessors—the physician who'd been long dead by the time I'd joined—had fashioned the clinic out of the mansion's enormous master bathroom. The bath must have been quite a luxury over a hundred years ago, in the days of Queen Victoria. Back in the days before her son, Prince Leopold, became a vampire and the Empire became overrun with every supernatural creature imaginable.