The Impossible Adventure

by Betsy Flak

  The girl drifted toward the tree Jones hid in.

  Duncan squashed the smirk twitching at his lips, lest she learn that he was no ordinary vampire. Keeping the male Warrior in his peripheral vision, Duncan followed her. He pretended her blood hypnotized him. When the other Warrior disappeared into the packed trees, Duncan didn’t so much as glance in his direction. She couldn’t know that Duncan tracked them both.

  Even so, apprehension wrapped its icy fingers around Duncan’s stomach. The very cover Jones had chosen now endangered him. But he stuck to the plan. Duncan herded the girl closer and closer to the trunk of Jones’s tree. Although he longed to peek upward, Duncan stared at the girl as if she was the only thing in this entire world, as if nothing existed but the two of them. The Clan assumed they were mindless beasts, so a mindless beast he would become.

  Clothing brushed against bark.

  The girl’s gaze flicked over Duncan’s shoulder. The movement was brief, but it betrayed her partner nonetheless.

  Embracing the animal within, Duncan whirled around. He surged toward the Warrior on all fours. When Duncan launched himself into the air, his canines reached for the Warrior’s sinewy throat.

  Duncan’s jaws snapped shut, empty. The Warrior had sidestepped his attack.

  Duncan cursed his stupidity. After all these months of training, he’d made a novice’s mistake. Falling toward the ground, Duncan prepared to land in a squat and renew his attack.

  A silver blade slashed the air.

  And Duncan’s chest. It ripped him open from shoulder to floating rib.

  Duncan screamed. White-hot pain blinded him. Duncan couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. A scorching fire radiated from the wound. His fingers tore at it, but the fire only spread.

  Water, I need water. Duncan struggled to his feet.

  A shoulder rammed into his stomach. Air exploded from Duncan’s lungs.

  He crumpled back to the ground.

  The female Warrior leapt onto him. Her knees dug into his thighs. Her forearm slashed across his chest, tracing his injury.

  The fire burned hotter and hotter, singing his fingertips, his toes, his scalp.

  The female Warrior raised her stake high.

  Guess this is it then. Duncan squeezed his eyes shut.

  The final blow never came.

  Jones ripped the Warrior off Duncan, then tossed her away like a sack of sand. As he helped Duncan to his feet, Jones hissed, “Get yourself together.”

  Duncan stumbled to the nearest trunk and used it to prop himself up. His arm pressed against his wound. Between his near-death experience and Jones’s order, the stupor had faded away. His veins still burned as if ablaze, but Duncan could focus on the scene in front of him. A scene that had changed since his injury.

  The female pushed herself to her feet, bits of leaves and twigs sticking to her disheveled hair. Behind her a body sprawled, its arms and legs at unnatural angles. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of blood.

  Duncan’s mouth watered. After, Duncan, there’ll be time for that after, he chided himself.

  “You’re all alone, li’l miss. Not even this ta help ya anymore.” Jones twirled her stake between his fingers. He waited for her to check behind her, a lesson in playing with your prey like a cat with a mouse. When she did, Jones repeated, “Like I said, all ’lone, poor li’l dear.”

  The generous lips of the lone living Warrior bent into a frown of determination. Her hand moved to her side. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword.

  Duncan’s wound—already healing, although slower than usual—twinged.

  Jones leered at her. “Ah, we got a live one ’ere.” He waved her forward, but the Warrior remained where she was.

  Confusion wrinkled Duncan’s brow.

  But his master chuckled. “Fair ’nuff, my feisty li’l advers’ry.” Without taking his eyes off her, Jones dismissed Duncan.

  An obedient Duncan backed away, although concern filled his stomach like a pile of rocks. Jones had always warned of the risk of fighting even a single Warrior.

  “See? Just you an’ me, li’l one. Just you an’ me.” Jones flipped the stake back to the Warrior.

  Duncan bit back a gasp. Why would Jones give her that advantage?

  “Go ‘head, pick it up. I promise, nothin’ dirty. Want this ta be a fair fight for my pal here ta see. Ta learn from.”

  Now Duncan understood. All this was part of tonight’s lesson. He mirrored Jones’s savage grin despite the daggers of pain stabbing through his chest. A real demon was about to go to work.

  Jones returned to the Warrior. Out of the corner of his mouth, he rumbled, “Now watch, my young companion.”

  And watch Duncan did. His master opened their soirée with a test: a simple charge. The Warrior dodged it without missing a beat. She even added an attack of her own, her arms seeking to wrap around Jones’s torso. With a smirk, Jones hopped away. This—not feeding like most vampires—was what Jones lived for. And what Duncan was learning to live for.

  The Warrior’s sword darted out. Jones danced away from its razor-sharp edge. Although his wound smoldered from shoulder to floating rib, a smile played over Duncan’s lips. This Warrior was no challenge for his master. Soon she would die at Jones’s hand. Or teeth, more likely.

  The two circled each other, the Warrior’s blade tapping against her boot. His master’s head cocked with interest, awaiting her next move.

  Going from zero to sixty in less than a breath, the Warrior lunged forward. Her sword slashed toward Duncan’s master.

  Jones dove beneath it. Then he swung upward, knocking her into the air without so much as a scratch from that dangerous blade. The moment her back slammed into the ground, Jones sprang onto her.

  The Warrior caught him on raised hands and feet. Her mighty thighs thrust him into the air. She flipped upright, then barrelled toward the landing Jones with a roar. Her sword stuck straight out in front of her like a battering ram.

  Jones leered at her. At the last second, he ducked beneath that blade.

  The Warrior dropped with him. Her bottom hovered over the ground cover. Her sword cut toward Jones’s calves.

  He leapt over it. The blade rent the air an inch below his sneakers.

  The Warrior rocketed up and spun. Her sword whirled with her.

  Like a knife through butter, it sliced through Jones’s neck. His head tumbled off his shoulders. Jones became nothing but dust.

  Shock and confusion surged toward Duncan like a tsunami.

  He charged.

  The Warrior turned around too late. Duncan collided with her side. She crashed into the underbrush. Her sword skittered over the ground.

  Like she’d done to him, Duncan jammed his knees into her thighs. He pushed against her flailing arms and torso, but he couldn’t pin them down. With a powerful twist, she sent them tumbling over the ground.

  Duncan didn’t know what to do. None of Jones’s training had prepared him for this.

  Something flashed silver in his peripheral vision. It grew larger with each revolution. The Warrior’s sword! Fear shivered down Duncan’s spine. The scar tissue across his abdomen burned. He could not let her reach that damned blade.

  Duncan snapped at her neck, her face, her shoulders, whatever was nearest. His arms wrapped around her, bringing her closer and closer to death. When she shoved him away, his talons gouged into her sides. The tantalizing scent of fresh blood wafted up. Duncan dug in harder.

  The Warrior wriggled one hand up to his neck. She squeezed against his windpipe and locked her arm in place. Duncan writhed this way and that, but he couldn’t escape her hold.

  Her arm buckled.

  Duncan flung himself forward. His teeth sank into her throat, then ripped. Blood spurted out.

  His mouth salivating, Duncan threw her body away. Then he sprinted in the opposite direction. He could not allow the blood to call him back like a siren’s song. With three Warriors dead, there could be no drunken escapades tonigh
t, no hangover tomorrow. The Clan would be out in force for weeks at least. Perhaps if Jones had survived, they could hole up somewhere nearby, a safe haven that only Jones knew about. With him dead, they had to flee.

  Duncan crashed through the forest, trading stealth for speed. Not fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the town they called home.

  He raced across the yard with its dead and dying grass, hopping over clumps of thistle and crushing patches of clover. He whipped open one of the two front doors. It clanged shut behind him. The empty first floor with its cracked cement and broken windows greeted him. Duncan flew through it, straight to the stairway in the far corner. Leaping the chipped steps three at a time, Duncan plunged down to the basement, their refuge from the sun. He burst through the rusted metal door.

  Four heads snapped to Duncan. Three of his allies clustered around a folding table playing cards. The fourth—good old Four Eyes—hunched over his laptop, his bald head shining in the fluorescent light.

  Duncan’s heart sank. That was two fewer than there should be. “Where are Viper and Helle?”

  “Out. It’s early yet.” Thorn placed a card face-up on the scratched surface.

  Duncan frowned. Guess I’ll just have to leave them behind. He waved his arms up and down. “Up, up, up. Let’s go.”

  Narrowing eyes black as a starless night, Mize sat back in her folding chair. Her arms crossed beneath her abundant chest. “And why’s that?”

  “Look around me, Mize. Do you see our Sire? What do you think happened to him?” Duncan sneered. “Look, we’ve got to go.” To show his haste, Duncan hurried to the rumpled cot shoved against the opposite wall. He ripped the sheets off. As he tossed them into a stained duffel, he surveyed the four vampires behind him.

  Four Eyes alone followed Duncan’s example. Looming over his bed in the back corner, Four Eyes placed his laptop into a faded backpack. Then he knelt to gather whatever he’d stored beneath his cot.

  One down, three to go.

  Clobber rose to his feet. His hand still clenched three playing cards. “Duncan, ya can’t mean what it sounds like.”

  “I do. Jones is dead. The Clan killed him.”

  Thorn let out a low whistle but didn’t move from his seat. Mize, on the other hand, shot toward Duncan. Her forearm slammed against his throat, pinning him to the wall. Chips of aged paint rained down on them.

  Duncan flung her off him. She landed in a crouch with her fangs bared.

  “Hold it, Mize.” Thorn’s lazy drawl echoed through the basement. “Duncan, what happened?”

  Dropping a ragged book he’d borrowed from Jones—the last of Duncan’s things—into the bag, Duncan met Thorn’s beady stare. “We were hunting the Clan. Jones wanted to show me how to kill a Warrior. Things went sideways and now he’s dead.” Taking a cue from his late master, Duncan unleashed a bloodthirsty grin. “The three Warriors that attacked us are dead too.”

  Her mouth agape, Mize stepped backward. Away from Duncan the Warrior-killer.

  As she should.

  With a scowl, Clobber pushed away from the folding table. “If ya killed so many Warriors, why do we hafta run?”

  Duncan sighed. Clobber was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  “Because the Clan will notice the Warriors missing,” Thorn answered before Duncan could. He collected the playing cards spread over the plastic surface without peeking up.

  Duncan bit back a rebuke. Thorn had no right to speak for him. But now was not the time to remind Thorn—not during this crisis. Duncan straightened to his full height and lifted his chin. “Thorn is correct, Clobber. Once they notice the Warriors are missing, the Clan will comb every inch of this town for our kind. That means we’ve got to get out of here while we still can.” Duncan zipped his bag shut and headed for the stairway.

  Four Eyes was already there waiting.

  Duncan’s caterpillar of an eyebrow arched. He’d expected Four Eyes to take at least another five minutes to pack up all his stuff.

  Four Eyes shrugged. “Figured this day weren’t far off, not with Jones teachin’ ya ’ow to ’unt the Clan.” Before Duncan could take offense, Four Eyes waved his gnarled hands toward the three others. “All y’all.”

  Indeed, the plan had been for Jones to teach each of them—except Four Eyes of course—how to hunt the Clan. Duncan had been the first up.

  And what a disaster that had proven to be. Perhaps Jones had been wrong. Maybe Duncan hadn’t been ready.

  Duncan dismissed the thought. No, he’d been ready. That Warrior…she’d just been less predictable than either of them anticipated. But she was dead now.

  Duncan jingled the keys at the others. “You coming or not? You’re welcome to stay here, but Four Eyes and I are taking the car.”

  Mize stomped over to her cot. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m comin’, I’m comin’. No sense gettin’ killed by the Clan, even if stayin’ with you louts is a headache waitin’ to happen.”

  “Clobber? Thorn?”

  Clobber bounded to his bed like a puppy. Apparently he didn’t mourn the dead long. “Yeah, ’course. Just lemme get my stuff together.” After folding up his cot, Clobber dashed around and around the basement, picking up clothes and video games scattered helter skelter.

  Thorn, on the other hand, rose with dignity and strolled to his bed. There he squatted and tugged out a half-full duffel bag.

  Duncan squashed the frown pulling at his lips. Whether Thorn was ready to flee for this precise situation or for another, less friendly reason, Duncan had no idea. I’ll have to keep an eye on him.

  Four Eyes unfolded a map and smoothed it against the wall. “T’ Denver then?”

  Duncan shook himself out of his stupor. “Yeah.” After ripping off a corner of the map and borrowing Four Eyes’s pencil, Duncan scribbled a note to Viper and Helle.

  V, H: We had to leave. We couldn’t wait. You know why. Meet us where Davey Jones was born. D.

  He tucked it beneath Viper’s pillow. Now the couple knew to meet them in Denver, assuming they found the note before the Clan.

  Once Duncan returned his pencil, Four Eyes plotted their course. “I ’ssume ya wanna get t’ civ’lization a coupl’a hours ’fore sunrise?” Four Eyes glanced at Duncan over his round lenses.

  A slight smile tugged at Duncan’s lips. At least one of them yielded to his leadership. “Yes. We’ll need time to find a motel for shelter.”

  Four Eyes nodded and traced a route over the map, highlighting a single stop with an “X.” By the time the others had gathered around them, he’d finished. The five vampires then packed themselves and their bags into the chipped, scratched, and dented station wagon parked out front. They hit the road, escaping the Clan’s clutches once more.

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  Lex Explains It All by Betsy Flak

  The Clan-Vampire Clash: Insider’s Guide

  Find out all you ever wanted to know about vampires, vampire hunters, their history, Warriors and their superhuman abilities, Diviners and their magic, and more. All your questions about the world of The Clan-Vampire Clash are answered by Lex Wilmer, a character introduced in A Brush with Vampires (The Clan-Vampire Clash: Book One).

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  Lex Explains It All

  The Clan-Vampire Clash: Insider’s Guide

  Sneak peek edition

  Chapter 3: Boring-But-Brief History

  Let’s start at the very beginning—“a very good place to start,” according to Julie Andrews.

  The Beginning: A Vampire Origins Folktale

  Centuries and centuries ago—back when magic ruled the planet—a girl and a boy fell in love. It’s always comes down to that, doesn’
t it?

  On the eve of their wedding, the girl walked along moss-covered cliffs like she did most every night.

  But this night was different. Normally sure-footed, she slipped. Her feet slid over the cliff’s edge, her legs and torso following close behind. The earth tugged at her hanging body. She scrambled to find a handhold, but her fingers skipped over the slick rocks.

  Down the girl tumbled. She smashed into black sand closer to a field of pebbles than powder. Beneath a night sky speckled with happy twinkling stars, the girl lay broken. Waves tickled her toes, but she felt nothing. Beneath her, the volcano smoldered. The wind whipped her hair off her bloody face.

  The girl’s heart faltered. Her breaths became labored. In one step, she’d ruined their future.

  Somehow, the girl’s love found her moments before she died. He cradled her in his arms. Tears rolled down his cheeks. There was no way to save her.

  And maybe if she’d been anywhere else with anyone else, that would have been true. Maybe she would have found her peace.

  In a desperate plea, the boy begged the earth around him to save his one true love. He begged the animals and the flora of the sea, the sand and the rocks below them. He begged the rushing wind, the raging waters. He begged the fire burning below. He begged anyone and anything out there to save her, to keep her from dying.

  He thought no one and nothing listened.

  He thought she would die.

  He was wrong.

  When the ground trembled beneath them, he shifted her body onto his lap, protecting her. When the wind ripped at his bare skin, he curled around her, shielding her. When the sea rose to claim them both, he gripped her harder and squeezed his eyes shut. If she couldn’t live, neither of them would. The waves collected the couple into its watery embrace.

  A rumble—great and terrible—roared over the island. Lava spewed into the starry sky. It rushed into the waiting ocean.