by Evie Byrne
Wat found Ivar and Gunnar in the great room, sipping tiny glasses of klajss. By Gunnar’s puckered expression, Wat guessed he hadn’t had a lot of experience with the stuff, but Ivar was right to give him a stiff drink. If Gunnar had been a child before he went to Los Angeles, he wasn’t any longer. He was an orphan and a prince just out of captivity.
“Wat,” Gunnar said, raising his glass.
Wat saluted him. “Welcome home, my prince.”
Gunnar ducked his head. “I can’t get used to people calling me that.”
“You will.”
Ivar handed Wat a glass. Groaning, Wat sat down, took a sip of white fire, and let his muscles relax incrementally for the first time in hours. Days. He’d just about forgotten what it was like to put your feet up, stare into the fire, and do nothing but watch the flames dance. Hell, he hadn’t had a good day’s sleep since Paul died.
“Got the Hand all tucked in?” Ivar asked.
“I think so. I think she’s as tired as we are. And she likes the bear skin.”
Gunnar made a face. “Why is that sudrmadr bitch sleeping in this house?”
Wat studied his cousin, concerned. He reckoned he was already a little drunk. At least Gun had remembered to use his hunting voice, so Eva wouldn’t hear him. Eva. He realized he was thinking of her by her first name, rather than as the Hand, or Sosa.
Using the same non-carrying voice, Wat said, “That’s strong language to be using so near dawn. Did she mistreat you while you were in her care?”
Gunnar flushed. “No.”
“Did she allow anyone else to mistreat you?”
“Well, no, not really. But Sosa’s just like Adad, only she’s a lot smaller. Seriously, she’s a mini-clone.”
“You’ve got plenty of reason to hate Alya Adad, it’s true.” And may the Old Ones help you when you get around to pointing blame in the right direction. “But we’ve got to do what it takes to survive. That means negotiating with our enemy. And that starts with being polite. Everyone in Brunnrheim is going to be taking their cues from you—”
Gunnar interrupted with a snort of disbelief.
Wat continued, frowning slightly. “If you act like a prince, they will follow you. That’s your first lesson. Remember it. Adad’s Hand needs to see what’s good and decent about us. You’re going to help show her that.”
“It’s hopeless. Don’t you see? They hate us, okay? They call us animals. They call us inbreds.”
Wat nodded. “They’re angry with us.”
“Don’t matter. Even on a good day they’re a sack of dicks.”
Wat smiled despite himself. “They are that. And they’re decadent, lazy, and spoiled, too. I’m not saying we have to love them. We just have to get along with one of them.” He pointed in the direction of Eva’s room. “Not just get along. We’ve got to charm her.”
“What are you trying to get her to do?”
“To let us stay, of course. To forget we’re here. To walk away and leave us alone forever.”
“I don’t think they’re going to do that. They’re like the Borg.” His voice changed, and he made some jerky gestures with his hands. “‘You will be assimilated.’”
Wat had no idea what the boy was talking about. Paul had been fascinated with humans and had raised his son on the fringes of the human world, surrounded by their technology and toys. Gunnar had spent so much time in front of the television, it was a wonder he knew anything of the forest at all. What exactly did he mean by ‘assimilated’? “Did they pressure you to change your ways?”
Gunnar scowled. “They let me know I was some kind of lower life form, that’s for sure, but they didn’t work on me very hard.”
“Where did they keep you?” Gun was the only witness to what had happened in Los Angeles. Wat wanted details, but wasn’t sure how far he could push the boy.
“They kept me on the top story of this hotel. Everything was white: the carpet, the furniture. There was a pool on the patio, skyscrapers all around. They had every gaming system known to man, a flat-screen as big as the wall, movies on demand, even por—well, any kind of movie I wanted.” Gunnar blushed. “But they wouldn’t let me on the Internet. I tried to tell them that it wasn’t like any of you have email, but they didn’t believe me. A couple of times they sent in girls to feed me, but it wasn’t like I was going to eat them, so I sent them away.”
“Did Adad speak to you, ask you questions, send anyone else to question you?”
“No one talked to me until the night before I left, except about little things. Then she came. Alone. She said she had ex-somethinged my father. I didn’t understand what she meant. She said he’d be with her always. I was like, ‘Fuck off, woman. You killed my parents.’”
Wat’s brows went up. “You said that to Alya Adad?”
“No.” Gunnar belched and blinked blearily. “I wish I’d said it. Instead, I wouldn’t talk to her, so she left.”
Ivar said, “Was the word she used ‘exsanguinate’?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Ex means out in Latin. Like exit. Sanguis means blood. Therefore, ‘exsanguinate’ means ‘out of blood.’ Drained dry.”
Great time for a Latin lesson, Ivar.
Gunnar’s eyes went wide. “She fed on my father?”
Wat leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew already. When one prince fights another, especially in formal combat, the victor has the right to drain his opponent to the dregs, to absorb his strength, and, to some extent, his memories and knowledge. The more exsanguinations under a prince’s belt, the stronger he becomes. Adad has quite a few.”
Gunnar frowned. “Dad never told me about that.”
“Well, he didn’t believe in it. He would no more feed on a vamp than he’d feed on a human.”
“Guess so.” Gunnar’s brow wrinkled. “Wait—if she has access to Dad’s memories, she knows all our secrets. All of them.”
“No.” Wat held up a finger. “She does not, unless I’m very mistaken. And this gives me some hope.”
Ivar grunted in agreement. “Gunnar the Black.”
“Who?” said Gunnar.
“Your great-great-great-grandfather,” Wat said, counting the generations on his fingertips. “He died in formal combat with a Prussian prince named Gebhard—”
“Wait,” interrupted Gunnar. “He lost?”
“That’s the point of this story. Because we don’t live in cities, we rarely fall into disputes with profane vamps, so we can only look back on a handful of blood challenges in our history. Gunnar the Black is the only prince of ours to have lost a formal combat—until your father, that is, gods keep him.”
“Are you trying to make me feel better?” Gunnar grumbled into his klajss glass. “Because it’s not working.”
“The stories say Gebhard couldn’t make heads nor tails of Gunnar the Black’s blood—likely because of our Gift. Ivar, do you remember how the song goes? The part where he takes Gunnar’s blood?”
Ivar did, of course. He had a good memory and a good ear for song, though he was so taciturn that few would guess it. He obliged them by singing a few lines in a low voice, “Bears and boars! / He spat and wailed / My mind runs riot / I’d fane have failed / than to live with blood so foul.”
Wat continued, “I’m hoping Adad finds Paul’s blood just as distasteful. I think she does, because if she'd read our secrets in his blood, she’d be acting differently.”
Gunnar took this in. After a while, he said thoughtfully, “Do you think that if I fought Adad and killed her, I could get Dad’s memories back?” He laughed aloud. “You two should see your faces. I’m not going after her. Promise. Not ‘til I’m older, anyway.”
Ivar said, “I have to ask—what did Faustin do on that roof? Is he owed our vengeance, along with Adad?”
All the color drained from Gunnar’s face. “No. It was all her. She got free. I don’t know how. And she killed everyone. All by herself. Everyone.” After a moment he
bent his head and whispered, “Except me.”
Ivar refilled Gunnar’s glass. Wat sat quiet, giving the boy his peace. He thought he was done with the story, but Gunnar started to speak again, his eyes hollow as they stared into the past. “There was blood everywhere. Fire. Bodies in piles. She was naked, all covered with soot and blood, and her eyes—gods!” I don’t know how she—how she killed Mom. I didn’t see. She came downstairs swinging a chain, got a gun and a flamethrower, killed everyone, and then set the building on fire. My guard died on top of me. I hid under his body.”
Ivar said, “That was the right thing to do.”
Gunnar shook his head. “I was afraid. I was so afraid. She was up on the roof, shouting for Dad, calling him out. I ran at her. She just laughed at me. Said I was going to live to tell what happened. Then she tossed me off the roof.”
Wat jerked in his seat. “She threw you off the roof?” He knew the massacre had taken place on the roof of an office building in downtown Los Angeles and wondered how far the boy had fallen.
“There was another roof below. Another building. I dislocated my arm when I hit, but I didn’t pass out. I heard Dad shout up above. Then it went all quiet. They fought, I guess. And she won. I figure…I figure she had to use him to free Faustin. There was a palm lock on Faustin’s restraint, keyed to Dad. I don’t know what she did to open it. It was dawn, so I crawled into a ventilation shaft and stayed there. I didn’t know where to go, what to do. My phone was busted. My shoulder hurt like hell. My parents were—my best friend was—our guards were—” His shoulders heaved, and then he let out his breath and sucked on his klajss.
The boy wasn’t going to cry in front of them. Wat hoped he would cry on his own. Sometimes all a man could do was cry. But tonight, they didn’t have the luxury for grief. Wat caught his eyes, held them. “Gun, the time is going to come, very soon, for decisions. If I can’t get them to leave us alone, we have two choices—”
Gunnar swiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Move or die.”
“Pretty much. Run and hide might be a third choice, but that could just be a longer way of dying.”
“Moving South is also a long way of dying,” Ivar added.
“Your people don’t want to relocate. This is what they tell me. This is what the Council tells me. But if you led them South, they might go.”
“I can’t tell them to do anything. I’m not a real prince.”
Wat raised a finger. “True, they don’t know you well. They haven’t seen you prove yourself yet, but they’ll listen to you. So before you make any decision, think on your choices. If you want to avenge your family, you have to move South. You have to live as Adad wants you to, bide your time, and wait for your chance to kill her. It’s a long game.”
“Fuck that. I’m tired of them. I’m sick of being pushed around.”
“Try to think long-term. Take emotion out of the equation. Pretend you’re writing a history book about us, about the things that happened here. Is it better that the prince dies in a last stand with his people, standing up for their ideals? Or does it make more sense for him and his bloodline to live on, so his family can rise again? There’s no right answer, by the way.”
Gunnar settled back to think on it, which pleased Wat. They all stewed in their own juices for a good while. At last he spoke.
“I think I died on that roof. I think I’ve been a ghost ever since. Seems like it.” His mouth twisted into a bitter half-smile, and he hunched forward, his hair falling over his eyes. “And I know when Brunnrheim falls, it’s all over. I might not have been raised here, but I know the Grove is our heart and the Spring our blood. I also know a prince is the sum of his people—and that without my people, without this place, I am nothing.” He grimaced. “Less than I am now, even. I could move to the Twin Cities like she wants, but I’d be shadow prince. Without Brunnrheim, I’d never grow strong enough to fight her. Right now, with you two by my side, I’m as strong as I’m ever going to be. And maybe if I go to the Grove and pray, the gods will be on my side, too.
I’m as strong as I’m ever going to be. No boy should say things like that. Wat wanted to weep. He wanted to rip something apart. He warned, “We can’t win if it comes to a fight. There’s no way.”
Gunnar raised his head. He suddenly looked a lot older than his sixteen years. “No, but we can hurt them bad.”
Chapter Three
Eva woke at sunset, surrounded with Wat's scent. The quilt reeked of him. Not of cologne or soap or fabric softener or anything else, just Wat.
The night before, as she fell asleep, she couldn’t help but bury her nose into the folds of the quilt over and over, taking long, speculative sniffs. Maybe she could figure him out by scent. He was such a strange man. Physically formidable, especially when draped in animal hides, but very polite. Prone to lecturing, but his words had an oddly sweet mother-hen quality to them. Conscientious. A good leader, a natural—but he didn’t seem to know it. He didn’t want to be a leader, she suspected. Quite a change from home, where everyone fought tooth and nail to distinguish themselves.
Tucked away in her quaint bed-closet-thing, whatever it was called, she burrowed deep in the bedding. The combined weight of the fur and the comforter was so heavy that she could scarcely turn over—but she was warm. Too warm, almost. Convinced that she’d freeze to death in her sleep, she’d slept in her coat and heavy pants. At some point, she’d woken in a sweat and stripped to her skin. Now her clothes lay on the frigid floor, just out of reach.
Cautiously she poked her face out of the fur cave. Her breath fogged the air. She had to get the fire going again. The only other choice was to stay buried until Wat got worried and came in to confirm, once more, that she was ignorant in the Ways of the Wilderness.
That was enough incentive. Dragging the bedding with her, she hunkered at the hearth, exposing only her bare arms as she coaxed the flames to life.
Once she was fairly certain the fire was going to make it, Eva pulled out a blood bag and grimaced at it before popping it open. She tried not to gag, as she always did when she drank bagged blood. It was dead blood. It had lost all life and power, leaving only calories. Barely tolerable when microwaved, it was utterly disgusting as a slushie, and it tasted of anticoagulant. She wanted real food. If they didn’t finish today, she’d have to run to back to Moose Junction and jump the gas station attendant. Or, if she wanted more variety, she could go on to the charming berg of Rust Jaw.
A flash of inspiration hit her. If she needed some creative leverage, an educational field trip to Rust Jaw would be just the thing for young Prince Gunnar. The framework of a plan started to form in her mind. She licked her teeth clean and smiled.
Breakfast finished, she lit the room’s two oil lamps, and then went to wash in the basin. She picked up the white pitcher, covered with blue painted daisies, and eyed it dubiously. Were those ice slivers floating in it? Dominick was going to laugh his ass off when he learned she was trapped in a Little House on the Prairie reality show. She gritted her teeth, poured some water into the basin, brushed her teeth, and had a cursory wash. As she had last night, she used the chamber pot for spitting. With luck, that was all she’d ever use it for.
It took all of two seconds to get dressed. She hadn't brought much with her, so she just pulled on the same turtleneck sweater she’d worn yesterday, and the pants and coat that Wat had scorned.
The room had a beautiful old Victorian dressing table with a big oval mirror, which somehow didn’t fit the rest of the house. She wondered where it had come from. A peculiar, old-fashioned quality permeated the whole room, an air that made her think of old ladies, from the china dog on the mantle, to the cut paper silhouettes of children in frames on the walls. A runner embroidered with bright geometrical deer and rabbits and grenades—no, those must be pine cones—covered the dressing table. It looked Nordic, but she doubted they’d bought it from Ikea.
The table’s drawer held a tiny silver hand mirror, a comb of horn, and a sma
ll curved knife with a wooden handle, well used. She picked up the knife, admiring its simple economy of line and fine artisanship. She had a knife collection at home. What was this one for? The blade gleamed bright. She touched her finger to the point, and it drew a drop of blood. Dang, she thought as she sucked on her finger. Someone was keeping it sharp.
Her eyes went to a little square door that sat in one wall, near the ceiling. She’d noticed it before she’d gone to sleep, taking it for storage of some kind. Now she decided she may as well poke around a bit. A footstool stood beneath it, inviting mischief. Climbing on the stool, she unlatched the door and swung it open, revealing a narrow passage straight to the outside world. A rush of freezing air hit her face, and then the ridiculous cold grabbed hold of her bones and made her shiver. How did they live this way?
The window—door—porthole—didn’t offer much in the way of a view, meaning it must be for air. Although the window sat near the ceiling, the view, such as it was, was disconcertingly low, almost at ground level. She reminded herself that she was in the submerged part of the house. The sun was still setting, but it seemed safe enough to peek out. Over a heap of snow, she could see the tree line in the far distance, and in the middle distance, a tiny stone house with a funny-looking peaked roof made of thatch. A pipe poked out of the roof, a thin thread of smoke emerging from it.
Someone shouted outside, on the far side of the little house, where she could not see. A mad whoop and laugh followed the shout, and a white, naked body rounded the house at a dead run. The limbs were gangling, the stooped posture familiar. Gunnar. Another naked man chased him—someone very tall and lean, with a head of shaggy dark hair. The dark man pounced on Gunnar, taking him down into the snow.
Where they commenced to wrestle.
Okay. A couple of things were wrong with this picture. First, wrestling in the snow, naked. So wrong. And next, why were they up so early? It was barely safe to be outside at all, much less bare-skinned.
The answer was simple. These backwoods vamps were lunatics.
