Immortal War

by Justin Somper

  25

  BIRTHING PAINS

  The deck boards of The Nocturne glowed red under the light of the lanterns and the stars. All around the deck, Nocturnals were engaged in their nightly bouts of combat practice. As usual, an array of weaponry was employed. Over the past six months, this largely pacifist crew had transformed itself into a mean, merciless, and often highly inventive fighting machine. At the center of the deck, right at the heart of the clashing metal, were the two men responsible for this metamorphosis—Obsidian Darke and Lorcan Furey. As had become their custom, the two men were sparring with each other.

  “A good blow,” Darke said, nodding circumspectly in acknowledgment as Lorcan withdrew his sword and readied himself for a fresh bout.

  Darke and Furey circled each other for a time. Of all the Nocturnals, they were the finest fighters and therefore the most closely matched. Lorcan had benefited from intensive training by Cate since the commencement of the Alliance. Darke, on the other hand, was a strong and instinctive swordsman who could pull seemingly impossible moves out of thin air.

  It was Darke who struck now, his rapier clashing against Lorcan’s in a sharp succession of volleys as they moved back and forth through the limited space they had carved out for themselves on the deck. As he pushed forward, Darke spoke. “I thought after the recapture of The Diablo you might have granted yourself a rest. On the contrary, it seems it has only sharpened your desire for the fight.”

  Lorcan’s eyes remained steadfastly trained on Darke’s as he fought back. “This is no time to rest on our laurels, Captain,” he said. “The taking of The Diablo may have given the Alliance fresh momentum, but it came at great cost. I for one cannot allow that to go unpunished.” So saying, he swung his sword hard at Darke’s. The captain was momentarily unsettled. Lorcan took full advantage and pressed in closer.

  “We need to talk again about the other ships in the Nocturnal fleet,” Lorcan said. He had Darke cornered up against the mast. He stared into his opponent’s face. It was impossible to read. It was still an adjustment to be able to look at the captain’s face, rather than at the opaque mask he had hidden behind for so many years. It was a fact both curious and frustrating that, though his features were now visible to the eye, if anything his thoughts and moods were harder to read than ever.

  Darke met Lorcan’s stare, keeping his counsel, his eyes giving nothing away. Then the captain executed a seemingly impossible turn and regained the advantage. “There is no need for us to discuss this matter again,” Darke said, his sword whistling through the air, close to Lorcan’s shoulder.

  “I disagree,” Lorcan responded, turning his own sword expertly to derail Darke’s attack. “Now is the best chance we have for victory—but we must boost our force. By calling on the additional ships in the Nocturnal fleet, you could ensure lasting victory.”

  “You know nothing of this,” Darke said, biding his time, assessing his options. “You must heed me when I tell you that calling upon my former comrades is not an option. You would do well to stop this line of questioning.”

  “I’ll stop asking when you give me a valid reason,” Lorcan said. His sword met Darke’s and steel clashed upon steel with the force of both men’s wills.

  “No,” said Darke, gaining the advantage once more. “You’ll just stop asking or we will be in danger of becoming legitimate adversaries.”

  Lorcan shook his head. He couldn’t accept the captain’s stance on this matter. The Alliance was not in the luxurious position of having many cards up its sleeve. The mysterious fleet of other Nocturnal ships was a key advantage and it was surely time to play it.

  “Every time I raise this, you just shut me down,” Lorcan said.

  “Yes,” answered Darke, “and I will continue to do so. And so, Commander”—he paused and then raised his sword aloft once more—“you would do well to let this matter rest.”

  The captain’s intransigence had lit the touchpaper on Lorcan’s anger. Their swords met once more but now Lorcan put aside all knowledge of this man as his ally. To him, this was no longer a training fight, and he renewed his attack for real.

  Obsidian realized the change and lifted his own game accordingly. As Lorcan pushed in with renewed urgency, the captain drew on all his reserves to power Furey’s sword away. The strength of his blow was such that the rapier was dislodged from Lorcan’s hands. As he turned to recapture it, Darke’s sword swung past Lorcan’s shoulder and the razor-sharp steel sliced through his hair and the skin of his neck.

  Lorcan turned, stunned, letting his sword fall to the deck. It fell alongside his fallen locks. Looking at Obsidian Darke with new wariness, Lorcan raised his hand to the back of his neck. As he drew it away again, it was bright with blood.

  This turn of events was sufficiently unusual to send shock waves across the deck. The fighters on either side of them drew down their weapons and turned to stare at their two leaders.

  “I’m sorry,” Darke said. “Believe me, it was never my intention to wound you.” Immediately he dropped his own weapon and leaped forward, laying his hand across the back of Lorcan’s neck, right across the cut. Darke kept the contact with Lorcan’s neck for a minute or so. As he did so, his eyes met Lorcan’s once more. When Darke withdrew his hand, the wound had already sealed itself.

  “Are you in pain?” Darke asked Lorcan, his voice softer than before.

  “No,” Lorcan said, shaking his head. He smiled. “If you thought I was overdue a haircut, you might just have said.”

  Darke smiled back at him, his hand resting on Lorcan’s shoulder. “For a moment there, I think we each forgot we are allies, not adversaries.”

  “Yes,” Lorcan admitted.

  “We should work hard to ensure that does not happen again,” Darke said, extending his hand.

  Lorcan nodded, extending his own palm. They shook hands. The relief across the deck was palpable. Suddenly, aware of the level of attention upon them, Lorcan turned and shouted to his crew. “Combat session is over for tonight. Thank you all for your time and effort.”

  As the deck began to clear, Darke’s eyes met Lorcan’s once more. “You have become a fine commander,” he said. “When I think back to the midshipman I knew, not so long ago, I draw great pride and pleasure in your metamorphosis.”

  Lorcan acknowledged this praise with a formal nod. But, as the captain turned and made his way across the deck, he found himself unable to repay the compliment.

  Lola’s bedchamber had become a foreign realm, Sidorio thought as he gingerly poked his head around the door. Lola was propped up in bed, on what seemed like a thousand crimson pillows. She was surrounded by her most loyal crew members—Holly, Camille, Jacqueline, and Nathalie.

  “How’s she doing?” Sidorio inquired.

  “Who’s she? The devil’s mother?” cried Lola, her dark eyes rolling toward him.

  She looked quite mad and was, no doubt, experiencing intense pain. Sidorio watched as Holly dipped a napkin in cool water and mopped his wife’s brow.

  “Can I do anything?” he asked.

  Holly did not respond but Lola did. “I think you’ve done quite enough. It’s because of you I’m in such pain. And yes, Sid, it is excruciatingly painful. I bore two children in my mortal span and their births were agony enough but they were as nothing compared to this…” She broke off and began wailing, a new fear in her eyes.

  “You must focus on your breathing,” said Jacqueline, who sat at the foot of the bed. “Come on now, just like we practiced.”

  Lola nodded, her matted hair snaking across the pillows. As Sidorio watched and listened, his wife began making a series of strange noises. It was unsettling, seeing her like this—hearing these unusual sounds emanating from her. Suddenly, they stopped and her head rolled around to face him once more. It made him think of their incredible reunion when he had returned her decapitated head to her body.

  “Are you still here?” she inquired now, coldly.

  “If you’d prefer me to go, I wi
ll,” he said, despondent at this strange gulf that had emerged between them—at this, of all times, when she was birthing his twin sons.

  Lola’s dark eyes seared into his. “Yes!” she cried. “I’d prefer you to go. We have no need of men here, not now. Bringing infants into the world is women’s work.” She cried out in fresh agony.

  “Breathe!” Jacqueline rose from her seat. “Really, you must focus. The breathing will help.”

  Holly turned to Sidorio, smiling reassuringly at him. “Everything’s under control,” she said. “Perhaps you had better go and wait on your own ship. This could go on for many hours.”

  He nodded, finding himself disproportionately grateful for the girl’s kindness. He blew a kiss to his wife but it fell unnoticed as her head thrashed from one side of the pillow mountain to the other. Feeling utterly at a loss, Sidorio, King of the Vampirates, backed sheepishly out of the birthing chamber.

  Grace opened the door carefully and padded soundlessly toward the patient’s bed.

  “It’s okay,” Jacoby said. “No need for the Scooby-Doo walk. I’m awake.”

  Smiling, Grace carried a chair over beside his bed. As he sat up, she reached behind him and began plumping his pillows.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’m going to miss this level of twenty-four/seven care when I’m discharged.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Grace said. “My care may be coming to an end, but I’m confident others will pick up the reins when you return to The Tiger.”

  Jacoby frowned at the mention of his ship. “You really think I can go back there?”

  Grace nodded. “Of course, why wouldn’t I think that?”

  He cradled his hands in his lap. “Let’s not beat around the bush, Grace. We both know what the Vampirates did to me. We both know what I am now.”

  “Oh, sure,” Grace said. “You’re a Nocturnal. And, as you may remember, there’s a war going on in which the pirates and Nocturnals are fighting in alliance. And, as you may also remember, it is Alliance policy to place a Nocturnal on board every pirate ship.” She paused. “In the case of The Tiger, I guess they just increased the percentage.”

  Jacoby chuckled, closing his eyes for a moment, his long lashes casting shadows in the lamplight. “You’re doing a very good job of making it sound easy, Grace,” he said, opening his eyes again. “I imagine that’s all part of the training, eh?”

  She shrugged.

  “Let’s consider the small but related matters of me needing blood and not being able to venture out into the sun anymore,” Jacoby said, the lightness of his tone belying the import of his words.

  Grace nodded but she was matter-of-fact as she answered him. “You’re right. You’ll be better off confining your trips outside to the hours between dusk and dawn. It’ll play havoc with your tanning regime, but, trust me, your skin will thank you for it.” She paused. “As for the blood thing, well, of course you’re right. We do need you to start drinking blood if you’re to become the big, strong Nocturnal we all want you to be.”

  He shook his head, sadly. “I can’t do it, Grace,” he said, his eyes tearing up. “It’s just not in me. I don’t want to die but I can’t kill another living being just so I can endure.”

  Grace put her hand on his shoulder. “Of course you can’t. But you’re not going to die, Jacoby. You really haven’t done your homework, have you? How many times have you met Lorcan and the others? Every Nocturnal is paired with a donor. The donor provides blood on a weekly basis but it doesn’t weaken them, let alone kill them. When you leave here, your donor will travel with you to The Tiger.”

  “My donor? I don’t have a donor.”

  Grace rose from her seat. “Actually, you do, you just haven’t been introduced yet.”

  She walked over to the door and pushed it open, calling softly out into the corridor. “You can come inside now. He’s ready for you.”

  “Can I come in?” Jasmine’s head poked around the door.

  “Hey!” Jacoby called out to her. “This is like the best night of my life. I’ve had one cute visitor after another.”

  Jasmine smiled with relief. “Sounds like you’re back to your old self.” She closed the door behind her and stepped closer.

  “Not exactly,” Jacoby said. She could see the telltale signs of tension etched across his forehead.

  “Tell me about your cute visitors,” Jasmine said, keen to lighten the mood. “Go on, make me jealous. I don’t mind!”

  “All right, then,” he said, smiling once more and reaching out his hand for hers. She took it and gave it a squeeze. “Well, first there was my nurse, Evrim. She’s incredibly foxy, with these big, smoky eyes. She comes to read to me when she has the time—in Italian. I don’t understand a word of it, of course, but I nod sagely at regular intervals.”

  “You’re shameless!” Jasmine said. “Who else?”

  “Next to come calling was Doctor Tempest herself. She’s become quite the young beauty, wouldn’t you say?”

  Jasmine nodded. He was right. In the time they had known her, Grace had emerged like a butterfly from a chrysalis. “But I’m not sure she’s officially a doctor.”

  “No,” Jacoby agreed. “She’s far more powerful than that. She’s a healer. But, pretty as she may be, I can’t do the flirt thing with Grace. It would be too weird.”

  “Because she’s Connor’s sister?”

  Jacoby shrugged. “Not so much that. More the fact that she’s been down deep into my psyche during the healing process.”

  “Ah, yes,” Jasmine said. “That makes sense. So, who came after her?”

  Jacoby was suddenly tongue-tied. “Her name is Luna,” he said. “She’s… she’s… Mexican.”

  Jasmine nodded matter-of-factly, squeezing Jacoby’s hand once more. “And this Luna, is she another looker?”

  Jacoby smiled and let out a whistle. “Seriously, you have no idea.” He took control of himself. “Almost as pretty as you but just not quite.”

  Jasmine smiled at the compliment, then, in the same bright and breezy tone, asked, “And is Luna your donor?”

  Jacoby froze, then turned to Jasmine, his eyes wide and questioning. “You know?” he said.

  She nodded, squeezing his hand more tightly. “Yes,” she said. “I know and so does Captain Li, and, Jacoby, I promise you, everything is going to be fine.” So saying, she leaned across and kissed him on the forehead.

  Jacoby’s head was racing. “Man!” he said. “This really is a red-letter day. You’re really cool with me being a Nocturnal? And Cheng Li, too?”

  Jasmine nodded. “We all want you back on The Tiger, Jacoby, just as soon as can be. It’s where you belong.”

  26

  AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Lilith, mistress of the Blood Tavern, sat inside her glass booth carefully applying a fresh coat of emerald polish to the nails of one hand. A young male Vampirate entered the reception area. At the sight of new customer, Lilith lifted the hand with wet nails. A half-smoked cigarette burned low between two nicotine-stained fingers. No one could say Lilith wasn’t a proficient multitasker.

  “You again?” she said as the young man approached her booth. “My, you’re a thirsty lad! Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s customers like you have made my business what it is today. Allowed for all my extensive franchising and whatnot.” She took a pull on her cigarette, thinking how cleverly she had surfed the wave of the Vampirates’ rise to power. It paid to have connections, and little Lilith’s went right to the very top of the Vampirate command. Exhaling leisurely, she thought of Sidorio. She’d always known he was destined for greatness.

  The customer pushed his money across the counter. “I’d like a pint, please,” he said, matter-of-factly but with a familiar undertone of urgency. They were always in a hurry, these immortals, when it came to blood.

  Lilith’s dry hand clamped down on the notes.

  Connor glanced around the vestibule, grateful to see that it was empty, save for a woman in huge fashion glasses
too intent upon reading a magazine to even notice him. Perhaps she was waiting for her companion to finish up. Connor remembered waiting on that same ratty sofa during his first visit here with Jez. That had been many months ago, and the magazines were still no more current. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman over on the sofa turn the page of her magazine, oblivious.

  “Which room?” Connor said, anxious to be on his way.

  “Number Six,” Lilith said, her lips raised in a wry smile. “Off you pop, Mr. Smith.”

  “Thanks.”

  After he had disappeared through the velvet-covered doorway, Lilith finished up her cigarette and twisted the cap back onto the bottle of nail polish. She slipped down from her stool and pushed open the door at the back of her booth, padding over to the sofa area. Whistling a rather saucy old shanty—it quite made her blush to think of the lyrics—she began sorting through the magazines. She made neat piles of them, watching the glamorous young woman on the sofa all the while.

  The woman, still wearing her oversize sunglasses, continued to read her magazine article. At last, she closed the journal and placed it carefully on the coffee table. Standing up, she smoothed down her jacket, lifted her purse, and nodded at Lilith. “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been very helpful.” She removed a crisp roll of notes from her purse and held them out toward Lilith.

  Lilith’s eyes were wide, but her hands closed over the notes as tightly as a clam. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink yourself while you’re here?” she offered. “On the house, of course.”

  The glamorous visitor shook her head. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but I’m going back to my ship now. There’s no rest for a captain!” She smiled, pleasantly, and removed her sunglasses. As she did so, Lilith gasped.