by Sunny
He looked at her with no change in expression, and repeated his words from before. “I will consider it.”
Denial of her offer by his very lack of acceptance.
If he saw Mona Teresa’s dark flush of anger, it concerned him not. All caring seemed to have left him.
“How dare you!” Mona Teresa hissed, fury lacing her words. Lunging at him, she raked her nails down the side of his face.
The apathy left Dante. His features hardened, and his eyes flashed to dangerous silver. Amber and I were both moving forward together as she lunged at Dante again.
A normal young Monère male would have fallen back beneath a Queen’s attack, nothing more than that. Dante was not a typical Monère guy. He had been raised among the humans. He had lived countless lifetimes. And in another time, he had been a warlord of such feared renown that songs had been sung about him and legends told.
Dante didn’t step back or cower under Mona Teresa’s attack. He stood there, and with a simple block of his arm, he swept aside her clawed hands with insulting ease.
The other boys watching gasped as if he had done the unthinkable. And perhaps he had, I don’t know. Maybe there was some stupid law saying that you couldn’t defend yourself against a Queen.
Mona Teresa’s six guards drew their swords and advanced with lethal intent on Dante.
“Stay here,” Amber said urgently, grabbing my arm and dragging me to a halt. “For his sake. And for yours.”
Oh yeah, I’m pregnant, carrying his child…a precious life that he believes to be his chance at breaking the curse. It stopped me as nothing else could have. Satisfied that I was staying put, Amber left me and rushed to Dante’s aid.
I wasn’t used to that. Staying back and being safe when my men were in danger. I cursed myself now for not bringing Tomas, Aquila, and Dontaine along. I had thought to spare Dante’s pride and my own raw nerves.
“Kill him!” Mona Teresa ordered her men. They rushed him and everyone scattered back away from them, all but Quentin. He stayed at his brother’s side. A noble gesture, I thought, but a useless one. Both of them were unarmed.
“Stop,” I yelled, fighting the only way left to me—with words. “You attacked him, Mona Teresa. He merely defended himself.”
“He dared raise his hand against me. Everyone here is witness to that,” Mona Teresa said, almost spitting with outrage. “It is my right to demand his head for that. Kill him! I want him dead.”
“No! He is still mine, under my protection.” But my words did nothing as mere words often did. Only might mattered here.
Amber dived into the melee, his sword drawn, and three of Mona Teresa’s men turned to meet him. The sound of clashing metal filled the air. And it was not just the sound of sword striking against sword, but sword scraping against Dante and Quentin’s bracelet guards. It puzzled the warriors who attacked them for a moment because the metal bands were hidden beneath their shirts. A few block and strikes later, though, the cut cloth gaped open, revealing the wide bracelets hugging Dante’s and Quentin’s wrists.
The two brothers fought one guard apiece. They dodged and twisted lightly on their feet, and the swords either slashed empty air or came up against those deflecting wrist guards. It would have been a mesmerizing thing to see, almost like a graceful, twisting ballet, were it not so deadly in intent, and so unmatched. One sword against six, with Dante and Quentin fighting without weapons. But that I could do something about.
Walking closer to the crowd, I scanned the gathering onlookers, searching specifically for other Queens and their guards. With my strong affinity for silver, I could call any silver dagger to my hand. I could do the same with a sword, though not as easily since swords were rarely silver. No need to be when the main purpose was to cut off your opponent’s head with them—simple steel did that easily enough. For nonsilver weapons, I usually had to familiarize myself first with the taste and smell of them. Amber’s blade had smelled like ancient battle and had tasted like spilled blood. The remembered scent and flavor of it rushed back into my mind, and I focused on two older, more powerful guards, reasoning that their swords would be most like Amber’s.
My palms stretched out, my moles tingled and pulsed. Nothing.
A second throbbing pulse with a deeper, pulling power, and yes! The two swords slid from their scabbards and flew into my hands, hilt-first.
What do you know? It worked.
“Dante! Quentin!” I called, and tossed the swords to them when they turned their faces to me. They leaped, caught the weapons in the air, and landed lightly, spinning back to face their opponents.
Now they were evenly matched, three swords against six. Okay, actually overmatched, with the advantage ours now. But I wasn’t too concerned about being fair, not when Mona Teresa hadn’t sweated it. And talking about that redheaded bitch. She’d drawn her dagger and looked as if she was considering hurling it into Dante’s back, a coward’s blow.
Eyes narrowed, I extended my hand again. Her dagger—it was silver, wasn’t that nice? — flew to me like a bird, coming to rest neatly in my palm.
I tsked. “Nuh-uh-uh. No backstabbing allowed.”
“You unholy mongrel bitch.” Drawing her other dagger, nonsilver, she came at me quickly. I barely had time to think—Should I run? — before she was on me. Okay. I had time to think about it, and do it. But, goddamn it, I didn’t want to run from her. What if I ran and she turned back and buried her blade in one of my men’s backs like the treacherous bitch she was? And she might. Because she knew, as I did, by Dante’s and Quentin’s deft handling of their swords, that her men were outclassed. I, on the other hand, could fight her with impunity by our laws, Queen against Queen. I could even kill her if I needed to, though that was not my intent. I’d caused enough uproar as it was at High Court already. No need to add another Queen’s death to the mess, especially coming so quickly on top of the other one I’d been involved in. Two of them, I think, would be stretching even the Council’s tolerance, Halcyon’s new High Lady of Hell or not. To be on the safe side, I tossed away the silver dagger I’d snatched from Mona Teresa and faced her unarmed. My blade might accidentally-on-purpose bury itself in her black, cowardly heart if I faced her with a tempting weapon in my hand.
She slashed at me quick, like a serpent striking. I twisted to the side and grabbed her hand as it came flying by.
“Mona Lisa, no!” Amber cried, catching sight of us. He quickly cut down the two remaining men he fought—the third one he had already dispatched—and ran toward us, dropping his sword, coming at us unarmed.
I was distracted by the sight, concerned with Amber coming between us, two Queens. Because even though he was a Warrior Lord, our supposed equal, he still was not really equal in the Council’s eyes. If anything happened to Mona Teresa, Amber would be blamed and punished. Maybe even killed.
I froze, my attention drawn away from my opponent, which is never a smart thing to do. She kneed me in the stomach. It was a blow I could have easily blocked had I been paying attention, but I wasn’t. It caught me with full, stunning force, and I felt something delicate, something fragile, tear inside of me. Then I felt pain. Stunning, incapacitating pain as I crumpled to the ground.
“Noooo!” someone roared. A man’s voice—Dante’s—but sounding as I’d never heard him before. Amber reached us and pulled Mona Teresa off me, unarmed her. He held her a safe distance away from me, letting her kick and punch and claw at him as he turned his eyes to me. “Mona Lisa.”
Then Dante was there. If his voice had sounded frightening, the look on his face was even more so.
“Get that bitch away from her,” he told Amber in a voice so nakedly vicious that I shivered. “Quentin, find Mother. Bring her quickly.”
His hands when they touched me, though, were gentle. So gentle they brought tears to my eyes. A horrible fear gripped me as I smelled blood and felt wetness pool beneath me, flowing out between my legs.
“Oh God, Dante. Our baby…I’m so sorry.” Wet t
ears stung my eyes, streaming out almost as quickly as the blood gushing from my womb. I writhed painfully in his arms as a terrible cramp seized me, hardening my belly.
“Easy, dulcaeta,” he soothed. His eyes, turned that ferocious, glittering silver, left mine and speared someone in the crowd. “Go find a healer,” he growled, and the man quickly ran to do his bidding. When the spasm passed, he eased me gently onto his lap and laid his hands over mine, two sets of hands protectively covering my belly.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Don’t cry. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay. And I couldn’t stop crying, couldn’t stop cramping. I cried and bled as he rocked me, and felt his own tears splash down to mingle with mine.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” I whispered feverishly against him, over and over again, stopping only when another spasm gripped me.
Soft hands pushed our hands aside. I looked up, and through my pain, saw Hannah kneeling at our side, Quentin and Nolan standing behind her.
“Let me see, milady,” Hannah said urgently. I stopped fighting her and she ripped open my dress at the waist and laid her healing hands quickly over my bared belly. I felt her seeking warmth sink down into my flesh, and like that, the pain, the cramping eased. The bleeding slowed.
“My baby?” I asked, voice trembling.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said in a bare whisper. “It’s gone already. I could not save it.”
Gone already. Her words echoed hollowly within me as she finished the healing. When it was complete, Dante gently eased out from beneath me, laid me back down. When he stood, I saw that he was drenched in my blood. In our baby’s blood. He turned those fearsome eyes on Mona Teresa. She stood about thirty feet away where Amber had dragged her. The look in those silver eyes held the same awful expression I had seen once before in my dreams—that look of vengeance, of terrible retribution.
“You killed my unborn child.” His words rang out loudly like a death knell. “I will take the lives of your men in return. Be grateful it is not your own life I will seek this retribution on. But I promise you this: If I am to remain cursed, I shall see to it that you share in it with me.”
He turned toward her guards, and long hooking claws almost eight inches in length unfurled from his fingertips with a hiss of energy—twice as long as they had been when he had fought in the challenge against Oswald. He had been holding back, it seemed.
A few of Mona Teresa’s guards had risen to their feet, helping their more severely injured comrades. The six warriors took one look at those claws, that maddened face, those silver gleaming eyes, and scrambled hastily for their swords. Some of them even grabbed it up in their hands before Dante reached them. He walked to them slowly, surely. In no seeming hurry to deliver the death he had pronounced upon them.
Two of them rushed at Dante, with sword and dagger in hand.
I said urgently to his father, “Give him your sword.”
“He doesn’t need it,” Nolan said, watching his son.
Dante turned their blades away like a careless afterthought, deflecting the blows with his wrist guards. Then in a move so fast you weren’t able to track it with your eyes, he sliced them open.
Splashing blood. Tearing cries.
Their intestines were still spilling out from their opened bellies when he sliced down again with those claws and took off their hands. Swords dropped down, daggers clattered to the ground with bleeding limbs still attached.
Turning his back on one eviscerated warrior, Dante concentrated his attention on the taller one, the guard who had raped Tersa. Another slice, aimed higher, and the man’s head came flying off. A flash of light, a puff of dust, followed almost immediately by a second shower of light and ashes as Dante spun around and took off the first warrior’s head, so that they were like two strobe lights going off in quick succession.
The coldness of his execution, his deadly accuracy with those claws, and the lethal consequences of them, struck pure terror in the remaining four men. They fled, or tried to.
“Stop,” Dante commanded. His silver eyes were glowing now, and even standing where I was, distant from where they fought, I felt the power that flared out with that command. They froze, all four of them unable to move, unable to fight against that compulsion. And everyone watching him—Queens, powerful warriors—gasped in fear and realization at what he was able to do.
The four guards stood captured by his will as Dante walked to them. When he stood before them, he said, “You are free.”
They moved. All four going in different directions, trying to escape him. Not one of them tried to attack him.
Dante moved even quicker. Nothing but a blur, then four more flashes of light. Ashes puffed over him, coating him gray, so that he looked like a ghostly specter. A horrifying creature drawn from your darkest nightmare.
For a long moment there was nothing but awful silence. Then the silence was torn apart as Dante threw back his head and screamed. A terrible roar of grief and heartbreak howled up to the heavens. To the distant moon.
One loud, trembling moment…then he was gone. Vanished before our eyes.
EPILOGUE
KNOWLEDGE IS A funny thing. I’d always reacted badly to loss, shutting myself down, going into a shocklike withdrawal, like when Gryphon, the first man I ever loved, had left me for another Queen. Then again when he died, was killed by her. It was a lesson I had learned early in life. Don’t love things, don’t grow attached. Because it hurts too much when you lose them.
I’d thought that my extreme reaction was because I had been abandoned as a newborn, then cancer had taken Helen, my adopted mother, from me when I was six, and I had been sent to live in a series of foster homes. But I knew now that the foundation had been laid long before in another lifetime, by another man. A man whose baby I had carried for a brief time. I mourned that loss, that little spark of life. A surprise. Or perhaps not so surprising. When I finally wanted something, that was when it was usually taken from me.
Maybe it was knowing why I reacted so violently to loss that bolstered that most vulnerable part of me—my psyche. I did not fall into a numbing decline as my men feared I would. I just simply grieved, mourning not only the loss of the baby, but the loss of the babe’s father also.
Quentin was accepted by a young Queen, Mona Maretta. A brave acquisition. Or perhaps bravery had nothing to do with it. Maybe she had simply coveted his perfect male beauty.
Dante had disappeared. Gone, I thought, but not quite as gone as everyone might have wished. When I returned home the next day, Lord Thorane called me with the news that Dante had slaughtered all of Mona Teresa’s warriors. Not just the six that had accompanied her to High Court, but the other twenty-four men that had remained behind in her territory. Dante had appeared there the next day like a wrathful god, taking his vengeance out on the rest of her men. Just the warriors this time, sparing the housestaff, showing more mercy than they realized. None of her guards, though, were left alive. He’d cut them down, one by one, eviscerating them, breaking their legs or chopping them off so they could not run away. Then he had proceeded to calmly tear them apart, limb by bloody limb, or had sliced them to pieces until they had begged to die. In the end, all that remained was blood and ashes, scattered empty clothes, and echoing cries.
Upon returning home, seeing the terrible carnage, and hearing her housestaff’s frightful tales, Mona Teresa had flown immediately back to High Court, seeking their protection from “the madman,” as she called Dante. Her frenzied cry for justice, however, fell on flat ears. We were Monère, after all. Children of the moon. Creatures of supernatural power. If you were not strong enough to survive, then you did not deserve to—that was the rule under which we all existed. All but the Queens, that is. Only the precious Ladies of Light were afforded greater protection by the Court. Protection, yes, but not retribution.
Mona Teresa, by her actions, however unknowing they had been—and that was suspect—had caused the loss of Dante’s unborn child and in
jured another Queen. A Queen who was the High Prince of Hell’s chosen and acknowledged mate. She was lucky, she was told, that only Dante had sought reprisal.
Oddly enough, Dante’s actions, reminiscent though they were of the slaughter of my own people long ago, didn’t frighten me. Maybe it was the anguish in his eyes when I was losing the baby. The protective gentleness with which he had cradled me in his lap and called me beloved. Whatever he had done to me in the past, the curse I had laid upon him and his line was as equally awful. They cancelled each other out; that was my hope, at least. And life, each life was different. I had to believe that. We’d messed this one up a little, but not irrevocably. Not yet. We still had a second chance to right the wrongs of the past. Or at least not repeat them.
Was the curse lifted from Dante? I don’t know. Had that life we created together, however brief, been enough to break it? If so, that would mean that when Dante died this time, he would not return again. And I found that thought oddly painful.
Nolan and Hannah flew back home with me, having decided to stay in my service.
Why, you might ask, as I did?
“Because of the way he looked at you. And the way you looked at him. He will return to you,” Hannah said. And their presence was a double guarantee of that. As his mother put it, “With us here, where else does he have to go?”
Maybe I’d gone a bit crazy, because the thought of him coming back to us didn’t frighten me the way it should have.
My mind said one thing, but my heart said another. And what my heart said was, Yes, come back to me. Come back soon.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 09547330-aa96-4394-acd0-28630735eb22
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 25 November 2009
Created using: FB Editor v2.0 software
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Bakoro
