by Jim Butcher
My heart started pounding faster, and I drew my duster back enough to put a hand near the handle of my blasting rod.
Lara flicked the scarlet silk cloth into the air, and it began to fall.
Ramirez was right. This was a trap. I had done everything I could to prepare for it, but the bottom line was that I was not sure what was going to happen.
But like the man said: It was too late to back out now.
The cloth hit the floor and my hand blurred for my blasting rod as the duel began.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Some people are faster than others. I’m fast. Always have been, especially for a man my size, but this duel had gotten off to a fair start, and no merely mortal hand is faster than a vampire’s.
Vitto Malvora’s gun cleared its holster before my fingers had tightened on the blasting rod’s handle. The weapon resembled a fairly standard Model 1911, but it had an extension to the usual ammunition clip sticking out of the handle, and it spat a spray of bullets in the voice of a yowling buzz saw.
Some vampires are faster than others. Vitto was fast. He’d drawn and fired more swiftly than I’d ever seen Thomas move, more swiftly than I’d seen Lara shoot. But bodies, even nigh-immortal vampire bodies, are made of flesh and blood, and have mass and inertia. No hand, not even a vampire’s, is swifter than thought.
Ramirez already had his power held ready when the scarlet cloth hit the ground, and in that instant he hissed a single syllable under his breath and flipped his left hand palm up. That bizarre glove he wore flashed and let out a rattling buzz of furious sound.
A sudden, gelatinous cloud of green light interposed itself between us and the vampires before even Vitto could fire. The bullets struck against that gooey cloud, sending watery ripple patterns racing across it, plowing a widening furrow through the semisolid mass. There was a hissing sound, a sharp pain high up on my left cheek, and then I was slapped across the chest by a spray of tiny, dark particles the size of grains of sand.
Ramirez’s shield was nothing like my own. I used raw force to create my own steel-hard barrier. Ramirez’s spell was based on principles of entropy and water magic, and focused on disrupting, shattering, and dispersing any objects trying to pass through it, turning their own energy against them. Even magic must do business with physics, and Carlos couldn’t simply make the energy the bullets carried go away. Instead, the spell reduced their force by shattering the bullets with their own momentum, breaking them into zillions of tiny pieces, spreading them out, so that their individual impact energy would be negligible.
When the dispersed cloud of leaden sand struck me, it was unpleasant and uncomfortable, but it had lost so much power that it wouldn’t have gotten through an ordinary leather coat, or even a thick shirt, much less my spell-laced duster.
If I’d had time to breathe a sigh of relief, I would have. I didn’t. Every bit of focus I had was bent on slamming a surge of energy and will through my blasting rod, even before I had the business end lifted all the way up.
“Fuego!” I cried.
A column of fire as thick as a telephone pole flew from the tip of the rod, struck the ground twenty feet away, and then whipped across the floor toward Vitto as I finished lifting my weapon.
He was fast. He’d barely had time to register that his bullets had missed their target before the fire came for him, but he flung himself to one side in a desperate dive. As he went, he gained enough of an angle to get him just around the edge of Rodriguez’s highly visible shield, and the vampire’s hand flickered to his belt to whip one of those knives at me in a side-armed throw.
It would have been a waste of time for any human. Thrown knives aren’t terribly good killing weapons to begin with—I mean, in the movies and TV, every time someone throws a knife it kills somebody. Wham, it slams to the hilt in their chest, right into the heart, or glurk, it sinks into their throat and they die instantly. Real knives don’t generally kill you unless the thrower gets abnormally lucky. Real knives, if they hit with the pointy part at all, generally only inflict a survivable—if very distracting—injury.
Of course, when real people throw real knives, they don’t fling them at a couple of hundred miles an hour. Most of them haven’t had centuries to practice, either.
That knife flickered as it came, and if I hadn’t hunched up my shoulder and tucked my face down behind it, the knife might have found the flesh of my neck and killed me. Instead, its tip struck the duster’s mantle at an oblique angle, and the weapon skittered off the spell-armored coat and tumbled off on a wobbly arc.
Vitto landed in a tumble, teeth clenched over a scream of pain. His left leg was on fire from the knee down, but he was smart—he didn’t stop, drop, and roll. In fact, he didn’t stop at all, and it was the only thing that kept my second blast from immolating him. The lance of flame missed him by a foot and momentarily smashed the curtain of falling water behind the white throne into steam. Beside me, I heard Ramirez fling out one of those green blasts.
“Harry!” Ramirez screamed.
I turned my head in time to see Madrigal coming at us from nearly straight ahead, his spear in hand. Ramirez hurled a second shaft of green light at him, but it splashed against an unseen barrier a foot away from his body. Glitters of golden light ran up and down the symbols on the cloth strips wrapped around his arms. I understood, then. Ramirez’s second shot had been a demonstration.
“He’s warded!” Ramirez snarled.
“Drop back!” I snapped, as Vitto came streaking toward me down the other sideline. He was reloading the gun as he came, dropping the old magazine, slapping a new one in. I lifted my shield bracelet, readying it—then hesitated for a fraction of a second to get the timing just right, gauging angles of incidence and refraction.
Vitto’s hand game up and the gun snarled again.
I brought the shield up at the last second, a flat plane perpendicular to the floor, and Ramirez took a hopping step back just in time to get behind the shield as it formed. Twenty or thirty bullets ricocheted off the invisible barrier in a shower of sparks—and spalled more or less toward Madrigal Raith and his magical protection.
The nifty armbands apparently weren’t made to stop physical projectiles, because one of the bouncing bullets ripped through the outside of his thigh with an ugly explosion of torn cloth and a misty burst of pale blood. He screamed and faltered, throwing out one hand to catch his balance before he could hit the floor.
“Drop it!” Ramirez shouted. His hand blurred toward his pistol, and he drew it before Madrigal could get moving again.
I pivoted the shield to clear Ramirez, taking a couple of steps forward to wall Vitto away from Carlos’s flank, and transmuted the far surface of the shield into a reflective mirror.
Ramirez’s gun began to roar beside me—measured shots that were actually aimed, as opposed to the rapid crack-crack-crack of panic fire.
Vitto reacted to the gunfire and the suddenly appearing mirrored wall ten feet long and eight feet high with instant violence. He flung the heavy handgun at a suddenly appearing and swift-moving target before he could realize that it was his own reflection. The gun had its slide locked open, and when it hit the shield at the speed he threw it, something in the assembly slipped, and it bounced off in several pieces.
Vitto slowed down for a step, eyes widening, and I didn’t blame him one bit. It would have made me blink for a second if my opponent had suddenly changed open air into the back wall of a dance studio.
Then he accelerated again and did something I wasn’t ready for. He bounded straight up into the air, a good ten or twelve feet, arching over the top of my shield in an instant and flinging knives with each hand as he came. I threw up my right arm, trying to interpose it with the oncoming knife as far out from my body as I could. The knife hit flat, which was fine, where the leather of my duster’s sleeve covered my arm. The handle of the knife, though, hit my naked wrist, and my right hand abruptly went numb. I heard the other knife whisper as it tumbled throu
gh the air beside me, missing me.
“Madre de Dios!” Carlos screamed.
The blasting rod tumbled from my useless fingers.
I cursed and flung myself to one side as Vitto landed on the inside of my shield, his sword whipping from its scabbard in a horizontal slash at my throat. My tactical thinking had been limited to two dimensions, maybe reinforced by the mockery of the sports field we fought on. The second knife had missed me because Vitto hadn’t been aiming for me. Its handle now protruded from Ramirez’s right calf.
I couldn’t move my fingers correctly, which precluded the use of the energy rings on my right hand. I dropped the shield—all it would do with him already so close was slow down my movement. I’d have to re-form it between me and him the second I got a chance, which he didn’t seem inclined to give me. He sent a lightning-quick thrust at my guts, and I had to dance back a pair of steps to buy myself enough time to parry it with a sweep of the staff in my left hand.
There was no way I could fence with Vitto. Even if he didn’t totally outclass me, physically, fighting one-armed with a staff against a competent fighter with a rapier is not a winning proposition. If I tried it, I’d be backing away from him in circles until I tripped, he slashed a few of my fingers off and finished me, or else forced me away from Ramirez long enough to double-team him and kill him. I couldn’t sling magic at him, either. His back was to the crowd of vampires and the human victims shielding them, and he was damned fast. Anything I could throw that would have hurt him could miss—and if it missed, it’d kill anyone who got in the way.
I couldn’t take my eyes off Vitto for a second—I had to hope that Ramirez was holding his own against Madrigal. I had to buy time and distance. I slammed will and Hellfire through my staff, snarled, “Forzare!” and released it in a broad wave that lashed out into absolutely everything in front of me.
The wave of force caught Vitto and flung him from his feet. He hit a brawny thrall with a neatly clipped goatee, and then the wave caught up and struck the man, too, as well as the folk on either side of him. They were flung back into the second row of kneeling thralls, and they, in turn, were all bowled back into the crowd of vampires behind them, to a general scream of surprise and dismay.
It hadn’t been a lot of force by the time it got to the thralls, not all spread out like that. I could have delivered tackles that hit harder. It had been enough, though, to tangle Vitto—whose leg was still on fire, by the way—in a pile of courtiers and thralls.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” I hollered, “to Bowling for Vampires!”
To my intense discomfort, a round of laughs went up from the Raith contingent, and I got a smattering of applause. I raised my shield again, into a shimmering half dome of glittering silver and blue light this time, and twisted my head around to look for Ramirez.
I turned in time to see Madrigal, bleeding from several gunshot wounds, rush forward, spear held high. Ramirez had fallen to one knee, his wounded leg unable to support his weight, and as I watched he dropped the Desert Eagle and gathered another bolt of disintegrating emerald force in his right hand.
Madrigal laughed at him, the sound silvery and scornful, and now that he was in motion I could see the chromium glitter of the demonic Hunger in his eyes. His protective armbands flickered brightly as he rushed forward.
“Ramirez!” I screamed.
Madrigal raised the spear.
Ramirez flung the gathered energy in a last useless strike……that missed Madrigal entirely and splashed on the stone at his feet.
A section of stone the size of a big bathtub glowed green for a split second, then shattered into dust so fine that its individual grains would be almost invisible to the naked eye.
Just as my average preparation session for a fight does not involve considering twelve-foot kung fu leaps from knife-throwing masters, I guess Madrigal’s practices didn’t take into account floors that might suddenly become pools of nearly frictionless dust. He let out a shriek and plunged into it, flailing wildly. I could see the wheels spinning in his head, trying to work out what had happened and how the hell he would get out of it.
Ramirez shot a look over his shoulder and snarled, “Harry!”
The fingers of my right hand were tingling. I raised it, clenching it into a weak fist. It was good enough to align the rings with my thoughts. “Go!”
Madrigal had worked it out. He thrashed to one side of the trough Ramirez’s spell had eaten in the floor, thrust the handle of his spear down into the ultrafine dust, and shoved himself roughly up and out of the sand trap.
But not before Ramirez drew the silver Warden’s blade from his hip, the sword designed to let the Wardens of the White Council slice into any enchantment, unraveling it with a single stroke. Carlos drew it, lunged out onto his wounded leg with a cry of pain and challenge, and sliced the willow blade left and right at Madrigal while the spear was grounded and locked into place, supporting him.
The sword cut through the wooden haft of the spear, snicker-snack, which was itself an indicator of just how unbelievably sharp an edge it had to have carried. Luccio did good work. That was just collateral damage, though.
The Warden blade also licked lightly across each of Madrigal’s arms.
The black cloth armbands erupted into sudden flame, the embroidered symbols on them flaring into painfully brilliant light, as if the scarlet thread had been made of magnesium. Any construct that held enough energy to counteract the magic of a major-league wizard, especially a combat specialist like Ramirez, had to have been holding all kinds of energy. Ramirez had just cut it loose.
Madrigal stared down in sudden panic at the fire writhing up his arms and let out a horrified scream.
I crouched, clenched my fist a little tighter, narrowed my eyes, and with a single thought released every bit of energy in the rings—what had been left over after the ghoul attack and what I had added later, all at the same time.
The power hit Madrigal low in the belly, at a slightly upward angle. It slammed him from his feet as the fire blazed over his arms, lifted him up over the heads of the gathered Raith contingent like a living, sizzling comet, and slammed him into the cavern wall behind them with literally bone-shattering power.
Broken, bleeding wreckage tumbled limply down.
“And the wizards,” I snarled, “pick up the spare.”
I turned back to face Vitto, who was only then clawing his way out of a pile of confused and unhappy Skavis and Malvora vampires and meekly passive thralls. He came to his feet with his sword in hand.
I faced him through the glowing dome. I heard a grunt, and then Ramirez stepped up beside me, silver sword in hand, still stained with Madrigal’s pinkish blood, his staff in the other, taking some of the weight from his injured foot. I kept the dome up, recovered my blasting rod, and raised it, calling up my will, letting fire illuminate the runes carved down its length one sigil at a time. The new shield was more taxing than the old, and I was getting tired—but there was nothing to do about that but keep going.
There were rustling sounds all around us. Vampires came to their feet. They edged closer to the thralls, shifted position so that they would be able to see. There were murmurs and whispers all around us as the White Court sensed that the end was near. Vitto’s aunt was not far from him, and she stood with one hand to her delicate throat—but she stood fast, watching, anxiety and calculation warring for space in her eyes. Just over one shoulder, I could just barely make out Lara’s profile as she leaned forward over the thrall kneeling between her and the fight—Justine—to watch the end, her lips parted and glistening wet, her eyes glowing.
The spectacle of it sickened me, but I thought I understood something of what triggered it in them.
Death did not come swiftly to vampires—but the old Reaper was in the house, and when he struck, he would take lives that should have lasted for centuries more. That realization let me understand something else about the White Court—that for all of their allure, that forbidden a
ttraction, the unnatural magnetism of a creature so beautiful outside and so twisted within, with their ability to give you the greatest pleasure of your life, even as they snuffed it out—they, the vampires themselves, were not immune to that dark attraction.
They were regular, near-eternal voyeurs to death’s handiwork, after all. They saw the mingled ecstasy and terror on the faces of those they took. They fed upon the surrender of life and passion to the endless silence—knowing, all the while, that in the end, they were no different. One day, one night, it would be their turn to face the scythe and the dark cowl, and that they would fall, fall just as helplessly as their own prey had, over and over and over.
Death had already taken Madrigal Raith. And it would soon take Vitto Malvora. And the White Court, one and all, longed to see it happen, to feel Death brush close by, to be tantalized by its nearness, to revel in its presence and passing.
Words could not express how badly they needed therapy.
Dysfunctional sickos.
I put it out of my head. I still had work to do.
“All right,” I growled to Ramirez. “You ready?”
He bared his teeth in a ferocious smile. “Let’s get it on.”
Vitto Malvora, the last of Anna’s killers, faced me steadily, his eyes gone white. I thought that for a man about to face two fairly deadly wizards determined to kill him, he did not look terribly frightened.
In fact, he looked…
…pleased.
Oh, crap.
Vitto threw back his head and spread his arms.
I dropped the shield and shouted, “Kill him!”
Vitto lifted his voice in a sudden, thunderous roar, and I could sense the will and the power that underlay his call. “MASTER!”
