StoneDragon

by Adrian Cross

  The occasional crossbow bolt flying out of the warehouse windows suggested some of Rhino’s forces were trapped inside. But as the fire intensified, the bolts stopped. The Earth warriors flowed elsewhere. The battle was over.

  Clay and Jonathan slipped somberly past.

  The pockets of fighting were heavier here, possibly because the stiffer resistance pulled more of the Earth army toward it. Clay decided to scale a building and get a better lay of the land. He pulled himself up, using crumbling bricks and easing over the top edge with extreme caution—he didn’t want to be met with a crossbow bolt to the eye.

  The roof was empty. The warehouse fire behind him painted it in vivid colors. Clay walked toward the other side, weaving between two heavy smoke-stained chimneys, then froze, his instincts jangling. He melted back into the shadows between the chimneys. Only his eyes moved as he swept the roof with a careful glance.

  Something thumped, like a heavy form landing. A shape had appeared on the opposite edge of the roof, backlit by the warehouse fire.

  Clay shrank back farther, hand touching his dagger. He didn’t draw it, though; its blue glow would have given him away.

  The figure leaned forward, a booted foot resting on the border of the roof as he watched the street below. Gold chains gleamed around his neck, beneath thick curled black hair.

  The figure on the roof was a vampire—and Clay knew him.

  Dante might not be Candiman’s top fighter, but he wasn’t far off. A sleeveless shirt showed off his sculpted chest and arms, with light coffee-colored skin. Dante looked more like a beach-dwelling playboy than a typical vampire, but there was no doubt he was one, and scary as they came.

  Tucked into his belt was his favorite weapon, a mace with a leather cover over its head. The cover was to prevent the silver knobs on it from touching Dante’s own skin. He carried a vampire killer. It was a statement about his aspirations. He planned on climbing the vampire ladder in whatever way it took.

  If he was hunting Clay, then he was in trouble. But Dante’s attention was too focused on whoever moved in the street below him. Clay felt safe enough to lean out and try to see what held the vampire’s attention.

  Mendonia. The Spartan padded down the road, carrying a fire-scorched sword, his eyes burning. Clay narrowed his eyes. Mendonia seemed heavier, as if his chest and arms had swelled since the last time Clay had seen the Spartan sitting in the Hairy Lady. He walked hunched forward, as if the muscles of his chest had tightened and pulled his frame inward. His back had widened, to the point that the straps of his bronze armor strained against his girth. His forehead looked heavier, shadowing his eyes, and white fangs curved up from his bottom lip. Clay remembered the last Spartan he’d met. If all the Spartans were similarly infected—and it was looking likely they were—it appeared to be a new strain of vampiric disease.

  Clay frowned. What if Candiman hadn’t made them?

  Mendonia’s head lifted. He smiled, bottom lip pulling tight against his fangs. “I smell you,” he said.

  Clay’s blood chilled. Smelled who? Clay or Dante?

  Clay saw a rush of movement. Mendonia was surrounded by three dark-cloaked vampires, swords glimmering. Dante had brought friends. Clay glanced at the street behind him, but Jonathan had disappeared.

  Dante hopped off the roof and thumped down behind his men, mace still tucked in his belt.

  Mendonia kept smiling. “One of Candiman’s pretty boys.”

  Clay let out a quiet breath. The Spartan hadn’t picked out Clay.

  “I wondered when you’d show up,” Mendonia said.

  “You’ve gone too far, mortal,” Dante replied.

  “No. Not mortal. Not anymore. Didn’t you figure that out yet?” Mendonia took a step forward.

  The vampires’ swords jerked up, and Dante tensed.

  “Why do you follow me?” the Spartan asked.

  Dante glared. “You know. You stole something from my boss. He’s not happy.”

  “See, you did know.” Mendonia’s lips twitched. “Does he want her back? I could try, but she’s not in quite the same shape she used to be.”

  Clay tensed. Were they talking about Karen? But Dante said the person or thing had first belonged to Candiman. So it wasn’t Karen unless StoneDragon’s vampire master had caught her first. Which Clay supposed was possible, but another thought struck him. What if Mendonia had stolen one of Candiman’s existing infected? Could the Spartans have infected themselves unsupervised? As crazy as that sounded, there wasn’t much that was too crazy for Clay to imagine Mendonia trying.

  Unease tiptoed down Clay’s back. Mendonia also seemed too confident for someone trapped by vampires.

  “Your fancy-ass boss wants to keep control of the blood himself. But it’s too late now—much too late.” Mendonia raised an eyebrow. “Does he know you decided to come hunting me?” He sounded amused.

  If Dante was concerned by Mendonia’s lack of fear, he didn’t show it. “You’re the one alone, Mendonia, not me. That was a bad idea.” The coffee-skinned vampire drew the cover off his mace and loosened his wrist, the silver head of the weapon leaving a faint trail in the dimness. His lips drew back, saliva beaded on his fangs. They were sharp and almost elegant compared to Mendonia’s. “I will be amply rewarded when I bring back your body, whether my master sent me here or not.”

  “You still think you caught me by accident, vampire, don’t you?” Mendonia chuckled. “Why don’t I show you what I can do now?”

  Then he started killing things.

  Silver is a good way to hurt a vampire, which is why so many weapons in StoneDragon are made of it. It seared infected flesh and slowed vampire healing. But it isn’t the only way to kill a vampire. As Clay had witnessed outside the Wall, hacking a vampire into enough pieces also did the job. Apparently Mendonia favored the latter approach. His blade was bronze, scorched black along its base and inelegant, but it did the job—thoroughly.

  The first vampire that faced Mendonia looked almost like a teenage boy, with rosy lips and pink cheeks, but his stillness and strength said he was an old monster, fast and hard, with nails and fangs that could tear open steel.

  He never had a chance.

  Mendonia’s first swing chopped into the vampire’s hip, crunching bone and driving him to the ground. Not many creatures could fight with one leg, even inhuman ones. The boy’s eyes flared wide.

  The Spartan’s sword whipped left to right and back, crushing the vampire’s left shoulder, then his right. Both arms flopped.

  The attack was so fast the other vampires just stood, staring, even as fear flooded the unnatural teenager’s eyes.

  Mendonia smiled. Then removed the vampire’s head.

  It was both shockingly fast and sadistically slow.

  The other two vampires blurred into motion.

  Mendonia’s rear foot slid back as he defended against the two flashing blades, deflecting them away, his strength knocking his attackers off balance. He shifted and broke the closest vampire’s neck with an elbow. It was not a fatal wound, not for a vampire, but the blood drinker dropped to the ground.

  The second vampire fared no better. Mendonia blocked a sword thrust, and his other hand flashed out, catching the vampire by the throat. The Spartan lifted the blood drinker, legs jerking, and then slammed him into the ground so hard Clay felt the shudder in the building beneath his feet. The shattered vampire twitched, broken but breathing.

  Mendonia stared for a long second at Dante, who hadn’t moved yet. Then the Spartan’s sword flashed out, almost leisurely over the helpless vampires. He chopped a wrist, then a knee, a hip.

  His mutilated victim screamed, jolting Dante into action. The vampire jumped forward, mace raised.

  Mendonia grinned and circled back, his heavy fangs white against a blood-spattered face. “About time.”

  “Abomination!” Dante snarled, following, but Clay saw the raised tendons in the vampire’s throat, the vein pulsing in his temple. Dante had made a mistake in unde
restimating the Spartan, and he knew it. The only way to mitigate the disaster was to take Mendonia down himself. The question was whether he could.

  The vampires that Mendonia had brought down might have been old and tough, but Dante was that and more: a warrior born. He moved fluidly, his weight low and balanced. His feet slid so he was always planted on the ground, ready to move in any direction. He spread his hands on the mace into a two-handed grip, as if it were a staff, and his eyes never left Mendonia’s.

  The Spartan watched intently, sword ready. Then he darted forward, hacking down.

  Dante caught the blow on the shaft of the mace, between his hands—a tricky move, with no guard to stop a sliding weapon—and pushed it away. Dante continued the movement into a spin, hands sliding together so the mace lashed at Mendonia’s chest in a single sinuous movement.

  Instead of throwing himself back, Mendonia stepped forward, turning the same direction as Dante, as if they were dancing. He caught the vampire’s wrist and elbow and heaved him into the air.

  Dante flew a dozen feet, rolled, and rose again, unruffled. The fall would have hurt a human but not a vampire, and both knew it. Mendonia had just bought himself some distance.

  Mendonia snarled and closed the distance, releasing a flurry of cuts, sword blurring, forcing Dante to duck and dodge. A line of red appeared on Dante’s forearm, thigh. He stumbled, and Mendonia’s sword tip caught the vampire’s shoulder, splashing blood on the stones.

  Dante staggered back, barely avoiding a slash to the head. He twisted awkwardly as he ducked away and seemed to stumble.

  But when Mendonia’s sword drove in, Dante side-stepped gracefully and spun, perfectly on balance, the weight of his body putting enormous velocity into the head of his mace. It hurtled at Mendonia’s head. Dante had been playing possum. Clay saw the vampire’s teeth grit and muscles bulge with the force of the swing.

  The mace stopped as suddenly as if it hit a mountainside. Mendonia’s hand had wrapped around it. There was a spitting noise and smoke curled from under the Spartan’s palm, a low crackling. The silver. Mendonia’s expression never changed. He just stood there, watching Dante.

  Then his massive forearm flexed, and Dante’s mace head shattered. Black and silver pieces fell to the earth, steaming.

  Mendonia wiggled his fingers, seared red, and moved them to Dante’s throat. The gold-chained vampire choked, arching back, the tendons in his throat snapping tight. Mendonia’s fingers must have been very hot.

  “I remember you, vampire,” Mendonia said, resting the tip of his sword against the vampire’s jugular. “You were one of the warriors who attacked us. I think it’s time to show the Bosses what a bad idea that was.” He brought his face close to Dante’s. “You may have noticed some differences between your infection and mine. For example, my teeth are bigger.” He grinned, giving Dante a clear view. “Want to know why?”

  Dante just glared.

  “It’s because we eat more than blood.” Mendonia sank his teeth into Dante’s shoulder, shook his head like a hungry dog, ripping away meat, and then lifted his face, teeth stained red.

  A scream tore loose from Dante, high and ragged.

  Bile flooded Clay’s throat. He stumbled away from the chimney, catching brick as he did. Dust slid down, but Mendonia never looked up. He was too busy to notice.

  It took a long time to leave the sounds behind.

  21

  In the Wreckage

  Bern’s left shoulder ached. A cat-thing with slick black skin and hot breath had launched itself at her without regard to its own life, teeth breaking her skin. It had tried to bring her down with its weight, and Bern only cut it loose with difficulty. Her shirt was damp with its blood. That had been the closest part of the battle.

  She saw a couple of the Clan carrying a tabletop as a makeshift stretcher. No one had died, but it had been a close thing, and the battle had not been costless. Ralotta, the older woman who was as close as they had to a doctor, would be busy today. Bern hoped none of the injuries were beyond Ralotta’s skills. Normally, the dwarves would barter the Ten Rich Men for complicated cases, but that would be hard with the city under attack.

  Brock stepped in front of her, looking uncomfortable. “I…” His jaw bunched. “You did well.” He walked away.

  A throb of pleasure ran through Bern, despite her exhaustion. She’d dreamed of this type of moment for years, of saving members of the Clan and being recognized by the most chauvinistic of the warriors. She grinned and instinctively turned toward Clay, where he stood watching the battle.

  Or where he should have been. A pit of fear opened in her stomach. He was gone. Had he been taken? But she saw no body, and Jonathan was gone, too. Another emotion spread through her. Anger. Warmth rose up her face. He’d left her. Clay had left her. That was why he’d been so willing to let her join the battle.

  She balled her fists. No. This was her Tempering. She would not be left behind, like some delicate decoration. She’d just proven her worth. How dare he twist her success into failure.

  “Are you okay?”

  Mama stood there. A bruise swelled her temple and cheek, already an angry purple, and her posture was awkward, as she favored the left side of her body. But her open eye was bright.

  “You should have your injuries looked at,” Bern said reflexively.

  “When the others have been seen to, it’ll be my turn. Being a leader means being last, not first. So what’s wrong? What happened to Clay?”

  Despair and humiliation flooded Bern. Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back. “He left. He didn’t want me.”

  Mama sighed. “What happened?”

  Bern told her, hesitating over the battle in the clearing and her retreat into the caves but forcing the words out. It was her failure, her burden to bear, and she refused to hide it. The battle with the monster in the mine, the Earth gods, and their return to StoneDragon. Clay’s betrayal. Anger and shame burned her face, and she hung her head.

  Mama tilted Bern’s chin up. “I know Clay. He is … hurt in his own way and struggling to find his path. But I don’t think he’s trying to hurt you or doesn’t value you. I think the opposite. How could anyone not?” She smiled.

  The tears flowed down Bern’s cheek, despite her best intentions. Love for the old woman swept through her. Mama had steered the Clan as best she could for many years, in strength and wisdom, and Bern could find worse role models.

  She swiped the tears away with the back of her hand. Mama might understand, but Bern still didn’t want to look weak.

  “Thank you.”

  A silent nod. “What are you going to do?”

  Bern’s confused emotions hardened into an iron certainty.

  “Follow him. I will not give up my task.”

  Mama nodded. “Good girl. Remember, a hero is not the one in shining armor, but the one who does the right thing, even when it’s hard. Go be a hero.”

  Bern smiled. “I will.”

  22

  Black Rose

  Clay’s stomach roiled as he strode away from the alley and the grisly aftermath of the vampiric battle. He was almost blind to his surroundings for some time, but when he nearly walked straight into a pocket of fighting, his survival sense finally kicked in. Only the combatants’ distraction gave him the chance to backpedal and duck into a side street, circling around the skirmish.

  He thrust his fear and revulsion into the back of his mind. Time enough for that later. He had to pay attention to his surroundings for the moment.

  He was deep in Little Italy, and Rhino’s men were as almost common a sight as the Earth army, with battles flaring up whenever they met.

  Jonathan hadn’t reappeared, and Clay wasn’t sure if the swordsman was staying out of sight for caution or if they had become separated following the rooftop. The question had growing importance because Clay could feel a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades. Someone was following him.

  Rhino’s men were tough and trained,
but Clay could see they were being driven back by the sheer number of Earth warriors. At one point, he saw a handful of soldiers, dressed in Rhino’s simple grey and black, punch into a line of rat men, who scattered. But almost immediately, a deep cough echoed, and some kind of huge cat-cross, boasting a white-streaked mane, charged down the road at them, double swords clutched in furry hands. He was followed by a column of hyenas.

  Rhino’s soldiers were outnumbered, and they faded, fast. They didn’t panic, though, and slipped deeper into Rhino’s territory. Clay grunted. If there wasn’t an ambush waiting, he was mistaken. Rhino was good at this type of war.

  When the street was empty, Clay moved again, staying out of sight as much as he could. Despite the danger, he decided to keep the dagger sheathed, tucked in the small of his back. He could still reach it quickly if he had to, but sheathed, its glow didn’t give him away and he looked less like a threat—which appeared like it might be an important characteristic.

  A foot scuffed behind him.

  Clay spread his hands and turned, slowly.

  “Hello, Rose.”

  The first thing he saw was the black crossbow aimed at his throat. The weapon was small, but at that moment, the bolt looked bigger than a fence pole.

  Behind it was the girl from the Wall. The one who’d rained bolts down on the Earth army. Black wrapped her slender form, from tall black boots to the cutoff T-shirt that exposed a smoothly muscled midriff. She was built like a panther, dark and dangerous, and her eyes glittered as she glared at Clay.

  Clay kept still. He’d known Rose since she was twelve, but that didn’t make him feel any safer at that particular point in time. Rose had been furious the last time he’d seen her.

  The crossbow was trained just over the collar of his coat, and her finger was rock-solid on the trigger. Complex technology might not work in StoneDragon, but crossbows seemed to do just fine, and Rose was aiming for an area unprotected by his coat. She knew him, too.