She had never been much of a ‘nature girl’, although she had been dragged along on plenty of camping trips with her dad. Hiking, fishing, canoeing, she had endured it all. Even after all those trips, she had to admit, she had never experienced the woods quite like this before.
She didn’t just see trees, she saw strong, wide trunks, with rough bark, spreading into thin branches tipped with vibrantly colored, dancing leaves. Each one waved in the gentle wind that caressed her face, and carried upon it a bouquet of fragrances from the forest. She could pick out everything from flowering blooms to earthy decay.
There were also sounds, surrounding her with birdcalls, rustling leaves, scampering squirrels, buzzing insects, and the munching of grazing animals. She found it all a bit overwhelming. It wasn’t until she heard a sound quite out of place in these surroundings that she remembered herself and why she was here. It was the unmistakable swish of a blade slicing through air.
She stood at the edge of a clearing, with no idea how long it took her to reach it. In the middle, she spotted Braughton. He stood with his back to her, sword swinging against some unseen foe. He advanced several meters towards the far edge of the clearing, turned, and began driving his way back towards her. The blade appeared as little more than a blur, even with her new abilities, and she wondered if he was practicing a series of moves or reliving some battle from his past. She noticed his eyes were closed, so started to call out to him, but stopped. She had another idea.
What if instead of picking up whatever scraps of his thoughts happened to escape, she tried actively peering inside? The problem was, she had no idea how exactly to read someone’s mind. Vampires, secret brotherhoods, and now mind reading, she could almost hear her old self laughing at the absurdity of it all. Was this really her life now?
Yes, as a matter of fact, this was her life now. She shook her head, clearing it of her own thoughts and doubts, then closed her eyes, and focused on Braughton. She fixed his face in her mind, studied it, refused to let it waiver.
The birdsong faded, the rustle of leaves stilled, and even the wind against her face died. The only thing left in her isolation was Braughton and his sword.
At first she heard nothing other than the whistle of the blade and the shuffle of his feet. The slices were fast and fierce. She could almost visualize them just from the sound. Every few steps he threw in straight strike punctuated with a grunt. There was power in that sound, and anger.
She could feel the anger, and then, she heard the name again. Malock. With every thrust and stab the anger grew, filling her until it became her anger, hatred even, towards the unknown Malock.
She wanted him dead. Wanted him to suffer. Just like Garrett.
Wait. Who was Garrett? She dug deeper, and beneath the anger she found regret, remorse, and a deep empty sadness, all associated with this new name. Garrett. She searched for a face, some image like she had of Braughton’s mother, but there was nothing. In fact, even the feelings were gone. She opened her eyes and found Braughton watching her.
“I see you found your sword,” he said.
‘Who’s Garrett’ was on her lips, but he surprised her, and it turned in to, “What?”
“Your sword,” he repeated, pointing to the hilt peeking over her shoulder.
My sword, she thought. Wonder who it belonged to before it became mine. Garrett, perhaps? “Yes,” she answered, rubbing the strap running across her chest, then added, “and my gun as well.”
Braughton frowned. “It’s probably best if you just take that off,” he said, pointing to her gunbelt. “You won’t need it.”
No guns? Now it was Liz who frowned. “So, swords good, guns bad?” Braughton shrugged. “But I’m really good with a gun,” she mumbled.
“I’m certain they cause some pain, and it might even slow them down a little,” he said, thinking of his own encounters with firearms. “Either way though, I haven’t found their effectiveness to be worth the hassle of carrying one.”
“Well,” she said with raised eyebrows, “maybe you just haven’t been using them the right way.”
Her pistol was out of its holster and pointed towards the woods behind him before he could even wonder what she meant. He spun around just in time to see the first shot cleanly cut a pine cone free from a nearby tree. She then proceeded to empty the clip into the slowly disintegrating target, keeping it dancing in the air until the last bullet rang through the air. When he turned back, the gun was loaded with a fresh clip, holstered, and Elizabeth rested her hand lightly on the butt of it. She was right. He hadn’t been using them the right way.
“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “Leave it on, then.” Her hand dropped to her side, and he could feel her annoyance. There was no doubt her skill would be useful, but right now he needed her to learn the sword. He had no idea how long it would be before Malock found them, and he needed her to be ready. Or as ready as she could be. He pointed his sword at her, called out, “Now, defend yourself,” and rushed towards her.
Her eyes widened as she reached for her sword, and realized it was on the wrong side. She grabbed the hilt, wrenching her sword from its sheath just in time to stop Braughton’s swing. The ring of metal against metal scattered the few birds that had settled back after Liz’s shooting exhibition. She blew a few loose strands of hair from her eyes and pushed against Braughton’s blade.
“Good,” he said, withdrawing his blade. “Now, hold it in front of you, like this,” he instructed. Liz raised her sword, mirroring his stance. “Now, block my attacks.”
He started slowly, letting her get a feel for the weight and movement of the blade, while he provided corrections to her movements when needed. There was no reason it should have felt anything but awkward, yet she couldn’t deny there was a faint familiarity.
As the morning wore on, she could feel her confidence growing, though perhaps covering a yawn with one hand while blocking the same attack for the hundredth time probably wasn’t the best way to express it. Braughton raised his eyebrows slightly and then began to speed up. She started to falter almost immediately. While she remained silent, the change in her attitude was almost palpable.
After a break at midday, he switched things up, focusing instead on offense. This time he spent some time demonstrating types of attacks she could make with the sword. He made her practice them alongside him for a while before finally waving her toward him and saying, “Now, attack.”
Her attacks were fierce and fast, but she was also cautious. She advanced only when necessary, making sure not to leave herself overextended. Braughton let her attack at whatever speed she felt comfortable, slowing her only when her swings became wild and out of form. By the time the sun was setting, she was moving faster than a normal human, but more importantly, she was doing it while maintaining control. He decided that was enough for one day.
The next morning, much to her dismay, Braughton again began with defense. Somehow she seemed to have gotten worse overnight. Anytime he tried increasing his attack speed, she stumbled. She listened to his instruction, watched his movements, but it made little difference. The only thing she seemed to be getting better at was coming up with increasingly colorful swears under her breath. They didn’t even make it to midday before Braughton decided to change tactics.
Instead of having her simply attack, he forced her to both attack and defend simultaneously. Her defense improved slightly and the frustration began to dissipate as she was able to release it in her attack runs. Unfortunately, it also made them sloppy. Gone was the restraint from the day before and she found Braughton’s blade against her neck again and again.
By the third day, her concentration was completely shot. She focused on her stance, his stance, her hands, his hands, his eyes, her breathing, the wind, the trees, the birds, it was all too much. After less than an hour she was ready to hurl the sword as hard as she could into the woods. Braughton called for a break.
Elizabeth dropped the sword and plopped down
next to it on the ground. She stared into the woods, still considering turning the sword into a spear, while she caught her breath. The anger and disappointment she felt was almost overwhelming. She needed a change. She and Braughton had spoken very little the past three days, other than the constant correction of her technique, and she thought it was time he shared more than just his knowledge of sword fighting.
“So,” she began, “when are you going to tell me the rules?”
Braughton’s brow furrowed. “I’m afraid the only rule in fighting is that there are no rules.”
“No, I mean about vampires,” she explained. “What are the rules? How do we fight them and kill them?”
“Well, I’ve never considered them rules, but I can tell you what I’ve found most effective.” Liz nodded and sat up. “Sunlight is your most powerful weapon. Exposure is excruciating, with only a few moments causing permanent burns, and any longer than a minute reducing them to little more than a pile of ash.”
“And the sword?”
“Removing the head from the body is another means of destroying the creature, and the sword handles that task better than most other weapons.”
“What else?”
Braughton thought for a moment, unsure exactly what she expected. “Fire, I suppose. If you can get them to stand still long enough.”
“That’s it?” Three ways to harm or kill a vampire. She was less than impressed. “I thought you’ve been doing this a long time.”
“I suppose a few centuries is a long time, to a mortal,” he countered. “The truth is they aren’t very forthcoming about their own weaknesses, and I’m more interested in survival than in experimentation when I encounter them.” His voice grew louder as he spoke, the irritation clear. Elizabeth lowered her head, and Braughton took a deep breath.
She wasn’t wrong to wonder these things, he reminded himself. She had a right to know, but how could he tell her things of which he himself was unsure? When he spoke again his tone was softer, the agitation gone. “Do not forget, it’s just this type of knowledge I’m trying to reclaim, and the possession of which that led to the near extinction of this Order.”
Elizabeth looked back up at him and nodded. He thought the line of questioning was over. He was wrong.
“Well,” she said casually, her eyes lowered to the ground again, “have you at least tried the basics?”
“The basics?” he repeated. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“You know,” she said, searching her memory, “crosses, holy water, garlic, silver … the basics.”
He shook his head. “You’ve seen too many movies.”
“I’ve seen too many movies?” she shot back with a small laugh. “This coming from the guy wielding the most clichéd piece of movie cutlery ever, a katana?”
“Clichéd?” he said with feigned insult. “This is arguably the best cutting style sword ever made, and it does a fine job of liberating a head from its body. Try doing that with a gun.”
Elizabeth held up her hands, ceding the point. “At this point, all I know is that I’m more than ready for the training montage to roll.”
Chapter Fifteen
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three ruby red drops of blood fell to the hardwood floor, and he licked his lips.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three more joined the small pool of blood, and his breath quickened.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
That wasn’t right. Malock’s eyes opened. He was lying face-down on the bed exactly as he had essentially crash landed on it. The towel wrapped around him was completely dry, as was the bedspread, so he assumed he had been asleep for some time. Longer than usual anyway. Another knock at the door made him finally stir.
“I’m coming,” he called out, noting the odd stiffness in his joints as he rose from the bed. He opened the door and found another man in one of those ridiculous robes. A mortal by the smell of him. Malock snorted, simultaneously clearing his nose and expressing his disgust at the number of humans employed by the council.
“Well?” Malock said after a moment of silence. “Did you interrupt my sleep just to stare at me in the hall?”
The human shook his head, recovering himself. “No, sir,” he stammered. “The Council will see you now. I’ve been instructed to take you to them.”
“Really?” Malock was surprised. The Council was such a mess of conflicting interests and posturing, they never did anything quickly. He started to step out into the hall, then realized he wasn’t dressed. “One second,” he said, shutting the door.
A moment later Malock returned, dressed and ready to meet the Council. His human guide turned and began leading him down the hall. Malock was still shocked by how quickly this was moving. He would be out of here in no time now. Then he had a rather unsettling thought.
“How long have I been here?” he asked.
“I believe it has been nearly three days since you arrived,” the human replied without even turning around. Malock’s jaw dropped. The human, oblivious, continued, “You’re lucky you awoke when you did. They were just about to move on to other business and come back to you later. There’s no telling - ,”
His sentence was cut short as he was slammed against the wall hard enough to drive all the breath from his lungs. Stars burst into his field of vision, and a dull throb settled into the back of his head. He tried to shake his head to clear it, but found Malock’s grip on his neck severely limiting. It only took another moment to realize the hand on his chest was the reason his feet no longer touched the floor.
“Did you say three days?” Malock asked with relative calm. His human prisoner simply nodded. “And why,” he asked, bringing his mouth full of pointed teeth closer, “did I sleep for three days?” The human did his best to shrug his shoulders and look confused. Not good enough.
Malock pushed him further up the wall and tightened his grip on his neck. “We’re going to try that again,” Malock said in an even tone. “This time I’m going to need you to use actual words in your answer. Understand?”
The human nodded his head, realizing his mistake only when he lost the ability to breathe. His vision started to darken at the edges before he was finally able to cough out a choking, “Yes!” The vise around his neck loosened and he drew in a ragged, painful, and delicious lung-full of air. After a few coughs he croaked, “Yes. I understand.”
“Excellent,” Malock grinned, exposing his sharp teeth even more. He lowered the human to the ground, straightened his robe, and put his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Now,” he began as if they were old friends sharing a secret, “you and I both know that isn’t normal. The question is, why did I sleep for three days?”
He almost shrugged his shoulders again, but the pressure from Malock’s hands was a warning. Instead he simply said, “I don’t know.”
Malock pulled him closer. “You realize being asleep for three days means I haven’t eaten in three days, don’t you?” The human’s eyes widened. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to speak up. I can barely hear your voice over the noise of your pounding heart sending all that lovely blood racing through your body.”
The human cleared his throat and stammered, “What I said was, I’m not sure.”
“Explain.”
“I overheard them talking about the girl they sent up to your room, something about her being drugged. I thought it was to keep her calm, but maybe the drugs were for you?”
“And the Council was aware of this?”
He nodded, then, without further prompting, added, “Almost certainly.”
Malock grunted. Not only were these creatures weak and frail, but they had almost no loyalty. He might actually be doing the Council a favor if he sucked this one dry. He looked at the now physically shaken human and sighed internally. If he killed him now he would have to wait on the Council to send another, which could be a very long wait. Besides, he wasn’t in the habit of doing the Council any favors, and
had no intention of starting now.
“Well,” Malock said, releasing the human’s shoulders, “it would seem I have much to discuss with the Council. Lead on.”
Needing no further encouragement, his human guide shot down the hall at a near sprint. He had nearly reached the main foyer stairs by the time Malock caught up. They descended together and upon reaching the bottom, headed for a door on the backside of the staircase.
This is different, Malock thought as he peered down the steep, narrow stairs. The last time he had been here the Council took its meetings in what would have been the formal living room in the plantation home’s first life. Now when, he wondered, did they move into the basement? And who thought that was a good idea?
As they moved below the floor level, concrete walls encased the staircase, giving the impression one was entering a crypt. Malock immediately thought of Master’s quarters, and wondered if the similarity was more than coincidental.
At the bottom of the stairs, the walls fell away to reveal a large, featureless basement. The floor was concrete, as were the walls. The only thing Malock could find of note was a single chair on the far side of the room. Seated upon it was a lone figure, who stood as they approached.
He was huge. Everything from his defined muscles to towering height was meant to intimidate. Malock was not impressed, but was glad to see the Council at least using vampire guards. Guide and guard nodded to one another as guide pushed against the stone wall, revealing a hidden door.
“You’re late,” the guard growled. Then turned to Malock and added, “They don’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Well now, that is unfortunate,” Malock said, stepping closer to the brute. “Looks like I’m going to be delayed even more as I have to teach a fledgling whelp, not even old enough to have shed his stench of mortality, the proper way to address his elders.” The guard, now realizing his mistake, stepped back until his legs brushed against the chair. Malock moved forward. “Then, they’ll have two more items on their agenda – finding someone to clean this room, and replacing you. Or,” he raised a finger and placed it on the guard’s chest, “you could realize your little job here does not require you to speak at all. The only thing you need do is look tough, which is much more convincing when you don’t open your mouth.”
Shackles of Sunlight Page 11
