SURVIVAL

by Karen Payton Holt

  The marksman had him in his sight. The burning sensation on his flesh told Connor the precise path of the laser beam over his twisting, contorting body.

  Controlling his speed, he spotted the ground. As his feet made contact with the floor, the percussive force of a bullet leaving a rifle barrel deadened his eardrums. Connor saw the glint of the tungsten carbide tip closing fast and dived out of the way.

  The bullet casing plowed a scorching line across the dense tissue of his thigh. His hydrated flesh oozed a weak plasma and granite dust solution. The tearing sensation over his skin lasted only a fraction of a second, but it filled his mind with anger which stayed.

  Julian bellowed, “Disarm those men, now.”

  Captain Gerrard galvanized into action. Passing along the rows of seating, dragging the council guardsmen in his wake, the captain commanded, “Lay down your weapons. That is a direct order. Do it now. You are relieved of your commissions.”

  Connor had other things to worry about.

  Sebastian bore down on him, slashing out with the blade. The driving force of the manic swipe grated the sharp knife along the lower edge of Connor’s rib and sliced into muscle.

  Connor was pissed off, now. He whipped out his arm, landed a powerful backfist squarely in Sebastian’s face and shattered his other cheekbone.

  The mindless anger of a predator rumbled in Sebastian’s throat. His collapsed muzzle permanently bared his teeth. Venom dripped freely from his detached jaw as he lunged forward.

  Keep moving. Connor broke into a forceful run as another bullet whistled across his heels and thudded into the steel barricade next to Anthony.

  “Anthony, my shield, on my mark. Three, two, one, now.”

  Connor swiveled as he counted, judging the distances of the potential targets around him. Anthony hurled the round plate of metal like a Frisbee, and Connor leapt to catch it. As he landed, he rotated on one foot with the shield tucked in close to his body. He whipped around, winding up speed until he became the blur of a silver-draped tornado. Splinters erupted in a plume of sawdust as another bullet buried itself in the floor behind him, his body stopped moving, his arm swung through, and he released the circle of toughened steel to spin across the arena in a perfect discus throw.

  He froze as his eyes tracked the shield through the air.

  The crunch of steel demolishing stone vibrated inside the marksman’s skull like the bite of a chainsaw blade through bone. The rogue shooter dropped his rifle and grabbed his head, holding it in place for a moment. He looked down at the silver gray plate of the shield slipping down his chest, before his head slid down, and his body folded down into his seat like a headless ghoul.

  Instantly dismissing the marksman, Connor looked for Sebastian. The click of a rifle cocking snapped his head around. He sliced a sharp glance over at Captain Gerrard.

  “Tell them to stand down, Sebastian is mine!” yelled Connor.

  He turned back, his features carved in granite. His eyes glittered as he flirted with grave sleep, letting his mind dance around the edges of it as the human blood inside him banged on the cell door inside his brain. But I want to see Sebastian die, not just feel it.

  Sebastian stank of ice-cold aggression. He had armed himself with a kopis sword while Connor was dodging bullets. The recurved blade glinted in the dim light, accentuating the sweeping edge from concave at the hilt to convex at the tip which could deliver a blow with the weight of an ax. Shit.

  “Connor. Here.” Anthony’s calm tone cut across the arena as he launched a sword with an arcing backward swing.

  As Connor’s hand closed around the hilt, he swung it over his head. Balancing the weight in his palm, he rotated the grip loosely in agile fingers. The blade gathered momentum, and he danced forward.

  Sebastian’s rhythm was a relentless thundering drum beat as he swung the kopis in devastating arcs. The force of the clashing blades shuddered up Connor’s braced arms. He parried and blocked, swinging up and back, scraping metal over metal until the hilt of his sword locked with Sebastian’s and he pushed him back a step.

  Connor controlled the pace, taking his time, and could smell the frustration oozing from Sebastian’s bronzed skin as venom sprayed from his hanging jaw.

  The gaping mouth became the focus of Connor’s mind. “You can do better than that, Sebastian.” His whisper echoed around the hall, floating up to dally in the space overhead, before falling again in a confetti of irritation.

  Sebastian roared, and, as his sword hit the top of an arc, he switched to a double-handed grip. With both hands raised overhead, he grinned into Connor’s rock-hard features. His biceps crackled as the muscle fibers tore with the sudden exertion of delivering a cleaving blow destined to slice into Connor’s skull.

  As the sword whipped down, Sebastian lifted his chin and growled. Connor stepped in close and dropped like a stone onto one knee. Gripping his sword in one hand and bracing the weight of the weapon in his other palm, he rammed his sword upwards into Sebastian’s mouth, shattering his palette and entering his brain. The end of the blade stuttered when it scraped along the inside of Sebastian’s skull, then Connor released his grip and it slid out again.

  Sebastian’s eyes snapped open in shocked surprise. Connor stayed down on one knee and dropped his head forward, absorbing the impact as Sebastian’s sword fell heavily from his slack fingers and came to rest in the cradle between Connor’s shoulder blades. Sebastian’s body keeled over backwards, his eyes staring up into the heavens. The ethereal light in the hall reflected in them, draping a filigree of frost over the dead orbs.

  Connor rose to his feet and stared down at his vanquished enemy. The echoes of clashing blades reverberated like the dying note of a tuning fork. Connor’s silver-stained body drew every eye as the air swelled with stunned disbelief that the duel was over.

  Julian raised a hand and announced, “Doctor Connor is the victor.

  Connor suddenly moved in the blur of a silver bullet, lifting the spell as he darted across the arena, vaulted over the hoarding, and joined Julian on his observation deck.

  In a lightning-quick manouver, Connor pulled Captain Gerrard’s hand gun from it’s holster, walked over to the nearby marksman, pressed the barrel to his eye socket, and pulled the trigger. The vampire hit the floor with the bullet bouncing around inside his skull sounding like a wooden spoon stirring custard.

  Julian stared into Connor’s frosty glare, darting a look at Charles and the lights on the console.

  Connor said, “No, I’m not in grave sleep. I’m just really pissed off.” He lanced a look over Julian’s shoulder to pin Captain Gerrard in his sights. “You’re very lucky. I like you.”

  “Jesus, Connor.” Julian breathed as he broke out into a smile.

  Chapter 32

  Connor stood naked under the needle-sharp spray of boiling water in the wet room. The familiarity of the surgical wing of the hospital drained the residual tension from his limbs as he planted his hands on the smooth tiles in front of him, hung his head, and watched the whirling pool of lead-colored oil and grease washing away beneath his feet.

  When the water ran clean, he turned and stepped back into the deluge with his chin raised, raking his hands through his hair. Sweeping his palms down over his chest and sluicing the water from his skin, his questing fingers explored the wounds chiseled into his hard flesh.

  Anthony did a good job. The opaque snail trails of glue stood proud, but would wear flat with time.

  The sliced cut into his tricep and the eight inch incision Sebastian’s shield had made into the flesh over his hip glistened as they undulated across contours of muscles carved in polished quartz.

  The scorched trough gouged out of his thigh by the bullet casing had oxidized silver paint into the muscle and would stay there as a permanent reminder of the battle; the badge of a warrior. The gray areas of vampire bruising marking Connor’s body bore testament to the force of Sebastian’s blows. Their impact had shunted congealed blood back along vei
ns until they collapsed, and so they would remain until he next fed and they were rehydrated once more.

  Connor cut off the water and stepped from the shower. He grimaced as rubbing a towel briskly over his ridged abdomen covered it in a generous sprinkling of glittering silver paint flecks. Going to take a while to get rid of them. He grunted. Romantic sparkles are just not me.

  He pulled on tailored pants the color of ash, pushed his arms into a coal-black shirt, and ran a comb through wet black hair which glinted with petrol-blue highlights. He looked in the mirror and, for a moment, he caught a glimpse of the ghostly features with eyes sockets darkened with intent that had haunted his childhood nightmares. He dragged his hands over his face. Am I a monster?

  He thought of Sebastian and of Rebekah’s bruised flesh at that monster’s hand, and he knew. No, the killing I did today was deserved. He just wished he had not enjoyed it so much.

  Connor grabbed his jacket and left the room. Walking with forceful assurance through the hospital corridors, he pushed the heavy glass doors aside as though they were made of plastic, bounded down the steps and hit the street running. I want to see Rebekah and Seren, but they are safe. First, I want answers.

  Connor remembered a conversation he had overheard in Vietnam; a salty NCO setting his squad straight. “You don’t have a life expectancy in combat. If you find yourself under fire, either you started it - in which case the gooks die – or they started it, in which case you die. We don’t make mistakes. We don’t let them start fights.” A sly smile came over Connor’s face. “Well, they started it. I wonder how they feel now?”

  When he pushed open the heavy oak doors of the council building, the corridors were deserted. Connor headed straight for Julian’s chambers and stepped inside without knocking.

  Dressed in his principal garb, Julian was tying his white cravat. Meeting Connor’s intense gaze in the mirror, he jerked his chin in greeting.

  Captain Gerrard was standing, facing the door expectantly. “Doctor Connor,” he said, in a guarded tone.

  “Where are they?” Connor’s lip curled. “And what the hell happened in there?”

  “They are in a holding cell. Anthony’s with them and they are awaiting your interrogation.” Julian quietly rattled off the situation as he turned and took a step to cross the room.

  Connor nodded sharply. “Let’s go,” he barked and disappeared through the door, leaving it swinging on its hinges.

  Julian and the captain caught up four seconds and two hundred yards later. As Connor entered the holding cell, he scanned the room, taking in the two stainless steel coffin shells resting on trestle tables. Anthony stood in between them, his narrowed eyes glued to his charges. His closed features radiated the disgust the muscles twitching in his folded arms seemed anxious to express.

  The two marksmen were presented in profile, standing to attention with their eyes focused front and center as though they were trying to burn a hole in the smooth wooden paneling.

  Connor walked up to the first one and intercepted the tractor beam of his gaze. “Guardsman, why did you fail to follow a direct order?”

  “Sergeant Burton gave us a direct order. Acquire the target and hold fire until he gave the signal.”

  “That would be dead Sergeant Burton, headless Sergeant Burton?” snarled Connor into the guardsman’s face. “Captain Gerrard gave you a direct order.”

  “Sergeant Burton is our squad leader- was.” The guardsman’s voice was flat with resignation. His eyes suddenly zeroed in on Connor. “I am sorry, Doctor Connor. He fired on you. That was over the line.”

  Connor looked from one guardsman to the other, digesting their stiff faces. They watched Captain Laurence die, at least they still knew there was a line. Connor nodded sharply, turned towards the door and left.

  Julian matched his pace as they headed for the council hearing. “Well?”

  “Let them sweat awhile, then send them back to barracks.” Connor’s hard features creased into a grim smile.

  Julian’s brows climbed in surprise.

  “Vietnam. The average life expectancy of a 1st lieutenant in a hot LZ was sixteen minutes. Well, slight exaggeration maybe, but, you get the gist. But I know the impact of living through that, I zipped up the body bags.” Connor stopped and looked Julian in the eye. “As a private first class, it was your sergeant who kept you alive. With Captain Laurence gone.” Connor shot an apologetic glance at Captain Gerrard and shrugged.

  Julian nodded slowly as Connor suddenly set off again, changing pace physically and mentally. “Is Serge expecting me?”

  “No. He was confined to the council anteroom for the duration of the duel and he has no idea of the outcome. He’s in the courtroom, pacing.” Julian smiled with genuine amusement. “He knows he faces exile if Sebastian loses. He doesn’t yet know that his plant, Sebastian’s second, failed.”

  “Definitely down to Serge, then?” Connor glowered.

  “Yes, Marius recognized the body as one of Serge’s recruits. He was only sixteen turned and the guardsmen underestimated him. He was there to fix things.”

  Connor stopped abruptly outside the courtroom door. He straightened his jacket and a smile glittered in the depths of his gray eyes. “Showtime,” he said quietly. “After you, Principal Julian.”

  Connor watched Julian disappear into the door marked, ‘Jurors Private: No Entry’, and continued down the hallway and placed his hand on the handle of the courtroom door. The pounding of a gavel on the bench was followed by Julian’s strident call to order.

  Connor walked into the room.

  Serge was standing in the dock. His dry skin crackled as tension sucked his cheeks into hollows and he swung around to see Connor’s stony face. Bitterness stirred the disappointment in his eyes as his chin went up in defiance. “Doctor Connor, I’d like to say I am pleased to see you-”

  “I know. Annoying, isn’t it?”

  Connor took in every detail of Serge’s repugnance, filling his lungs with the councilor’s peculiar odor. What is that smell? He wondered if Serge’s drab olive-green coat had ever been a good fit for his scrawny shoulders. Vampires are immortal, sure, but bad maintenance leads to wear and tear. Serge is the worst example I’ve seen outside of storage facility eight.

  Serge’s trembling anger rippled the fabric of his empty coat sleeve. “There is no justice here,” he spat vehemently.

  “No, you are right.” A feral expression clung to Connor’s features as he said, “Justice would be you lying dead in the arena with a sword buried in your brain, or-” His gray eyes clouded with an avalanche of ice as he glared. “A blade between the eyes, like your accomplice.”

  Serge’s gaze skittered around the courtroom, catching sight of Julian’s closed expression.

  “Save your breath, Councilor Serge,” Julian said quietly, “We have always known what you are, and no one is happier than I that you’ve signed your own death warrant.”

  Serge choked on his own saliva as he spluttered, “Death.”

  Connor grinned. “Anything less would be an injustice.”

  “But exile.” Serge’s eyes stretched wide above slack cheeks as he pleaded. “Surely, Principal Julian, exile-”

  “It is not my decision. Your forfeit is in Doctor Connor’s hands.” Julian pretended to be apologetic.

  “Perhaps exile would be more fitting.” Connor rubbed his jaw in dark contemplation. “I hear a space has opened up in the Loch Glascarnoch hive.” At Serge’s blank look, Connor added, “It’s in the Highlands of Scotland. Coldest place in Britain at -15 degrees centigrade.”

  Julian’s confusion showed on his face.

  “Cold is not exactly a problem for us,” said Marius.

  “To us, no. But the only animals are scrawny goats, and their human farm calls for perpetual hard graft by the vampires to maintain it.” Connor smiled as his meaning sank in. “Short rations of blood and no time to yourself, Serge. You could call it a living hell.”

  Julian laughed softly. �
��That sounds perfect.”

  Serge’s jaw snapped shut, his eyes glazed with hatred.

  Julian lingered over his smile a little longer before he banged the gavel and, peering around the courtroom, said, “Doctor Connor has a declaration to make to the hive.”

  Connor dominated the courtroom. The weight of his cold stare dragged across each face in the gallery like fingers of frost over stone as he committed each one to memory.

  “You all know me, and that I have fathered a child.” Connor’s deep inhalation pulled his black shirt taut across his chest and thickened the column of his throat in a display of the raw power of an alpha male. “None of us know where this may lead, but,” He pierced the core of each vampire with a daggered look. “any vampire who means to harm my daughter will meet the same end as Sebastian.” He closed his right hand into a fist, pounding it once upon his chest, over his heart. “That, I can promise you.”

  Chapter 33

  The air inside the soundproofed room at Julian’s house was drenched in a bouquet of adrenalin and nervous perspiration.

  A battery-powered lantern cast a fuzzy-edged circle over the thick carpet, leaving most of the room in deep shadow. A keen eye would have picked out the makeshift crib of an oak dresser drawer set down on the floor in the corner of the room. The tumble of white linen which filled it stirred with every wriggle of Seren’s delicate limbs as she exercised tiny muscles and discovered how movement felt.

  The only other sounds disturbing the cloying silence were the scratching of a pencil lead across paper and the whispering of vellum sheets slipping through agitated human fingers.

  ‘How long?’, was printed halfway down the page, forming part of the rambling transcript of their thoughts. The white paper caught the lamplight and appeared to float across the space between the two shadowed figures like a prop in a magician’s illusion.