Beneath the Night

by Jen Colly

  Dyre sent her a scolding look and clutched the cage tightly. “We are not feeding them to your panther. I’m taking them above and setting them free.”

  She shrugged her indifference. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d followed Dyre above to free some wayward animal that had found its way into the city. “Fine, have it your way. We’ll stash them somewhere until sunset.”

  Dyre nodded. “I’ll be quick. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

  Cat gave him a once over. “You’d better change first, or this will be one seriously interesting night.”

  “What? Why?” he asked, looking down to inspect his shirtfront.

  “Your collar. And your face.”

  Pinching his shirt collar between his fingers, Dyre pulled it away from him to find the pristine white smeared with cherry-red lipstick. He gaped at the contrasting colors. His shirt had been ruined.

  “It’s just a shirt,” she said as if soothing a child.

  “This is not just any shirt,” he countered. “This is a hand stitched—”

  “You know better than to wear your good clothes out on patrol. That shirt would have had someone’s blood on it by the end of the night anyway.” Cat gave his upper arm a hearty smack. “Or did you forget who you’re working with?”

  Chapter 3

  Lord Navarre was home. He lay in his own bed, unconscious and unmoving. Savard had brought him here, praying his guess was right.

  Cat worked the day shift, which meant she’d slept next door most of the night. If Cat was truly Navarre’s other half, then their proximity should produce a big reaction in him.

  Savard checked his watch. Cat walked by hours ago to start her shift. Navarre had flinched, taken a deep breath, then seemed to fall into an active dream. His skin had flushed, and he’d gone hot to the touch. Nothing had happened since. Savard shoved his hair off his face, adjusted his position in the chair.

  Suddenly Navarre moaned and then stirred, restless and shifting beneath the sheets. This wasn’t the minor twitching Savard had witnessed earlier. Navarre rolled to his side, tossed the covers off, aware, at least subconsciously, of his heated state.

  Savard jumped out of the chair, and raced to Navarre’s side. This was really happening. His lord was waking.

  * * * *

  The warm, soothing yellow glow surrounding Navarre faded, then darkened, until the grays turned to black. Night. Wind pulled at his bound hair. The sword at his hip rhythmically hit his thigh. He didn’t feel the blade against his leg, or the wind on his skin.

  A dream.

  Navarre stalked toward the sounds of a struggle. His stride felt long, floating, and in no time he reached the mouth of a secluded and narrow alleyway. A pack of demons surrounded a man. Three waited, two fed.

  Savard stood at his side, raised his sword, and Navarre did likewise. Their swords clanked together, then they split up. Navarre surged forward. Savard disappeared, reappearing behind the demons. A death box, Savard had called it.

  Navarre attacked, swinging his sword in a deadly arc.

  The high walls of the alley buildings melded together, rose high to connect above his head and block out the night sky. Chandeliers glittered. As he spun, a soft feminine hand replaced the hilt of his sword. The woman’s skirts crinkled around his legs as they danced.

  Navarre hadn’t wanted to come here tonight. His parents had insisted he act his station. He should train with the Guardians, socialize with his peers, act as one of royal blood should, and keep an eye out for a suitable female to one day help him care for his city.

  He didn’t want to handshake his way through the peaceful, good-natured people of the city. Navarre wanted to be a hero and save people in real danger, not cater to those fearful of cracked city streets.

  Lord and Lady Casteel stood to the side near the thick pillars, their faces popping into view as he turned his dance partner. They were happy. His mother’s smile beamed, and that look on his father’s face? Pride.

  Luciana smiled up at him sweetly, her dark hair twisted in fat ringlets. Between kindhearted Luciana and the look on his parents’ faces, he almost wished he could be what they wanted him to be.

  He may have been born to this aristocratic life, but Navarre felt driven to do something else. His friend Soren was of the same mind. Neither had any intention of fitting into the roles being pushed upon them.

  Soren knew his secret. Had anyone else discovered that Navarre left the city, met a vampire living above ground, and hunted demons at night, they would have reported his behavior to his parents. Soren had caught him leaving, but instead of safeguarding the sole heir to the city, he helped Navarre sneak out.

  Side by side he and Soren walked down the royal corridor, laughing, their spirits high. With a long stint of drinking ahead of them, they’d swung back around to Navarre’s home to grab extra money.

  Navarre’s father stood in the corridor, blocking their path. Soren remained at his side, not at all intimidated by the great lord. A pop echoed off the corridor walls. Time stopped, then slowed, and Lord Casteel fell.

  Soren grabbed his arm, pulled Navarre behind him. He couldn’t feel Soren’s touch, but knew he was restrained, his friend unwilling to let him go to his father’s side. Still a dream, and yet it was a memory. Shock rooted him in place in the dream as it had in reality. Vampires didn’t return from a bullet to the head. His father lay dead on the floor.

  The assassin came for Navarre next. Soren shielded him, pushed him backward as they retreated.

  Then the assassin was jerked backward, his balance faltered. Two men were on the floor. Soren’s father had come to their aid, wrestling the assassin for his gun. This time the pop was closer, seemed to echo inside his skull.

  Heavy footsteps came from the next corridor, several men. Running. Guardians. The assassin fled. Soren’s father was dying.

  Navarre was lord.

  The glow returned, comforting, calming. This time it had a source. A being emanated this sensation, luring him to come closer, but he couldn’t see who was beyond the light. Navarre squinted. He couldn’t see….

  Navarre shielded his eyes from the heavily falling rain, trying to see through the sheets of water to pinpoint the sound of a woman in distress. He didn’t feel the cold night air, or the rain soaking his clothes. He still dreamed.

  The flash of demon red in a passing pedestrian’s eyes caught Navarre’s attention. Locking down his fear, he kept his distance, but followed the man. He remembered this night. This was his first night above, his first demon.

  In a dugout stairwell leading to a basement door, the demon had trapped a woman long before he’d caught up. Desperate to save her, heedless of his surroundings, Navarre rushed down the steps.

  No room to swing his sword, and to make matters worse, it was too late to save the human. The demon turned on him, teeth bared. Navarre stepped back, tripped on the stairs. He fell hard, though he didn’t feel the steps beneath his back.

  Realization hit. Irreparable damage was moments away.

  Silent as the night, a shadow-cloaked man leaped into the stairwell from somewhere above. The man didn’t draw a blade, didn’t shout or grunt. With deadly precision, he punched the demon in the throat, grabbed its hair, and drove its face into the stone steps at Navarre’s side. Rain dripped off the man’s shoulder-length black hair, partly concealing his face, but those clear, somber eyes stared down at him.

  Savard hadn’t known he’d saved the life of the heir to Balinese. One day Navarre would ask this man to stand at his side, but that first night they’d met…

  “What were you doing here?” he asked, his voice raw, like he hadn’t spoken in days.

  “Trying to save an innocent,” Navarre had answered honestly.

  Savard looked him over from head to toe, his gaze clearly soaking in details, including Navarre’s expensive clothing.

  Savard’s response demanded obedience. “Go home.”

&n
bsp; Go home.

  Navarre gasped, consciousness returning to him in a rush, and when it did, the searing, whole-body agony nearly knocked him back out. Everything hurt. His lungs burned, pain spread through his ribs. His muscles strove to lock his rib cage in place, protesting every breath.

  Not normal. Nothing felt right.

  When he opened his eyes the light stung them, and after three good attempts with unvarying pain and still no vision, he gave up. Eyes pinched shut, he reached out, felt the soft mattress beneath him and a pillow beneath his head. A bed. Was it his bed? He reached out, blindly searching for anything to spark a memory of his location.

  Navarre tried to reach out for his headboard or even his nightstand, but his range of mobility was dismal. His muscles were tight, joints stiff. What had happened? Was he whole? To wake in this amount of pain, he must have been injured badly. Navarre held his breath in an effort to minimize the pain through his chest as he slowly pushed up onto his elbows. As he sat, the thin sheet that had covered his body fell to his waist, and he gritted his teeth. His chest was bare, and the sensation of moving fabric had grated against his sensitive skin. His skin hurt?

  Without the luxury of his eyes, he relied on his hands to verify the state of his arms, face. Hesitantly, he reached down to his legs. They were there, at least to just past his knees. Navarre lifted a knee, elated to feel the support of his foot on the mattress. He tested his other leg. The same. His appendages, though weak and uncoordinated, seemed intact.

  Suddenly the clash of swords rang in his ears, reverberated through his skull. Men yelled. Navarre opened his eyes only to slam them shut. The brightness burned his eyes, made it impossible for him to see beyond the glaring light. He turned his head toward the sounds of battle, his mind urgently trying to grasp the situation. How could he defend himself with no weapon, no vision?

  He reached toward the space where the nightstand should be in hopes of finding a crude weapon, a lamp or a phone. Anything. The abrupt stretching of his arm rocketed pain through his ribs. Navarre pulled his arm back tight against his body and cradled it close, groaning loudly.

  He’d heard himself groan. How had he heard his own voice over the fray? He listened for the swords, the yelling, but now there was none. The room was silent. He shook his head, tugged on his ears. Had his hearing gone? Navarre snapped his fingers an inch from his ear. He could hear, but now the room felt still. Empty.

  A door burst open and footsteps approached. Boots. He tried to open his eyes again, and failed. Navarre was at the mercy of whoever had just come into the room.

  “Navarre?” the man asked, his hesitant and hopeful tone distorting his voice. Familiar, yet still unrecognizable.

  “Navarre!” a second man yelled. Urgent and muffled, the voice echoed in his head, and it belonged to Sampson. The Guardian he trusted with his life. “Get out. Go!”

  He wanted to obey Sampson’s command. His personal Guardian’s singular job was to secure the lord’s safety, but Navarre had serious doubts in the abilities of his broken body.

  Again, the heavy clank of straining broadswords reached his ears, more distant now. The sure and even strides of a man wearing boots continued to rapidly approach, but this time it was different. He felt movement in the air. Though he had little hope of keeping the intruder at bay, Navarre threw out his arm.

  “It’s about damn time you woke,” the man said, catching Navarre’s hand mid-swing, grasping it tightly between both of his. “You’re all right. You’re home.”

  Navarre let out a sharp breath. The man was real. A voice he knew, from a man who had fought at his side too many times to count. There was no better feeling than the relief flooding through his already overtaxed muscles.

  “Savard?” Navarre called, his voice broken and strange to his own ears. “I can’t see you. I can’t…see.”

  His captain released his hand and dashed away, and Navarre heard the soft snick of a light switch. Returning to his side, Savard asked quietly, “Better?”

  Navarre cracked open his eyelids. The blinding pain had dissipated, but the dark room refused to come into focus. Objects didn’t look right.

  “Slightly. What happened?” His voice rasped the question.

  “Demon tried to stop your heart.” His captain’s words sounded hollow. Hurt. “You’re home now. You’ve been in a healing sleep.”

  “How long?”

  Savard cleared his throat. “Over six and a half years.”

  Navarre reached out, found Savard’s shoulder. “Years? How is that even possible?”

  “Not now. Sunset is in twenty minutes. Too much information and not enough time,” Savard said, his tone commanding, firm and final. Then he heard Savard moving, hastening away from him, then returning to his side.

  The captain threw a thin, stiff material over Navarre’s shoulders. It abraded his skin, but he didn’t argue. He glanced at his shoulder, but his eyelids slid shut, the bright white of whatever had been thrown across his back was too much for his sensitive eyes. And again, it hadn’t been in focus. He touched it. Buttons lined one edge. “A shirt? Why?”

  “You really did it this time,” Savard said as he guided Navarre’s hand into a sleeve. “Someone will be here soon to feed you.”

  Navarre blindly reached out, caught his captain’s forearm. “No.”

  “You don’t have a choice. When that sun sets, you’ll go after anything with a heartbeat, and I won’t allow that to happen.” Savard broke away from his grip. Easily. “Right now, you are not lord of this city. I am.”

  His captain was right. He had little control of his body, none over his city. Savard came to his other side, threaded his arm through the other sleeve, then pulled his long hair from beneath the shirt. Navarre opened his eyes again, tried to help, wanting to dress himself, but everything around him blended together.

  Through the blurry haze, the glinting metal of a sword came swiftly toward his chest. Navarre swatted it away with a shout. Nothing was there.

  “It’s just the hallucinations,” Captain Savard said from a distance. “They’ll pass after you feed.”

  Navarre snapped his eyes shut once more, pressed his palms against them. Hallucinations. Dear Lord above, he must have been near death, meaning even now his body skated on the edge. Being this far gone, he’d lose control of his actions, possibly his thoughts. If he fed in this state, it would be an exchange. A life for a life.

  “Sunset is coming fast. You can either harm an innocent, or a volunteer.”

  “I don’t want this,” Navarre said, his voice a raw whisper.

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Savard said, his voice growing more distant. “She’ll be here soon. Button your shirt.”

  The door shut, followed by an eerie silence, and the sudden realization that his captain had said she. A male would stand a small chance of survival, but a female? If a woman were truly being sent to him, she would die. A good, gentle female he would destroy in a matter of minutes, a sacrifice for her lord.

  Navarre let out an outraged cry that morphed into one of pain. Taking a moment to slowly breathe through the pain, he had to admit his body was in need of blood. The mere thought of feeding tripped off a roaring fire in his fangs that shot back through his skull. Clasping his head in his hands, he rocked forward. The abrupt motion sent a volley of knife-like twinges ricocheting inside his ribs. This time was different. It had an epicenter.

  His hand shook as he brought it to his chest. Just left of his sternum his fingers grazed over a large patch of agonizingly tender skin. Near his heart. This was why he must feed.

  The attack. The demons. A sword had pierced his chest. The hallucination of a sword coming at him had been reality at one point.

  He pulled his fingers from the scar and looked at them through his hazy, distorted vision. Navarre gasped. Blood coated his fingertips. He could see the drops sliding over his hand, down to his wrist, but when he rubbed his fingers together, they were dry. Ano
ther hallucination.

  He’d never been this far gone, never experienced the extremes of blood deprivation. Reading about another man’s account could not compare to the firsthand knowledge of physical impairments, hallucinations, and disorientation. The cravings.

  How was he supposed to know what was real, what was imagined? He would never be able to stop feeding in time to spare the female’s life. Yes, he needed to live, to rule his city once more, but to take a life? Out of the question. These people were his to protect.

  Time was running out. She would be here soon. He had to get away from the temptation to feed. Not trusting his eyes, he kept them closed, and threw his legs over the side of his bed. Navarre slowly stood, so sure that balance would be his biggest obstacle, but it was the sudden roaring in his ears that sent him back to his bed. Now he couldn’t hear.

  After a few moments, the deafening noise eased and he stood again, and taking an unsteady step forward, he relied on the memory of his home to navigate. He braved a glance across the room. The dizzying blur made him stagger, but he was able to discern the change in the carpet color leading to his living room.

  Reaching his arm out to the door frame, he held tight, breathing deeply. Ahead was his living room and foyer. His way out. Two more steps and he leaned heavily against the wall. His body began to shake head to toe, icy cold. Movement should have heated him as it pumped blood through his system. It hadn’t. Did he have so little life left in him? The cold gripped him again, constricted his muscles, and stiffened his mobility. He needed heat.

  His muscles convulsed, trying to create heat from within, and his already unsteady steps faltered. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of the pillar to prevent his fall.

  If he’d made it to the pillar, then his study waited on the opposite side. His ragged breaths echoed through this empty home, and Navarre forced his breathing to a slower pace. The smell of burning wood had gained strength, though he heard no crackling of the fireplace. He surely couldn’t have hallucinated a scent.

  Eyes still closed, he painted the map of his study in his mind. Rows and rows of books, floor to ceiling, lined this cozy section of his home. His office and desk sat to the right. He went left, keeping to the wall. His fingers brushed the soft leather bindings of his treasured books as he edged along the wall toward the fireplace. A chair would be nearby, but if he sat, he might not be able to rise again.