by Zoë Archer
The hawks dove at him, as they continued to attack Lesperance and Astrid. Catullus, ducking to avoid their assault, strode to where Halling was staggering to his feet.
“It’s mine!” shrieked the Heir. Red stained his cheeks, like an overtired boy having a tantrum.
“Impolite to hoard your toys, Richard.” Then Catullus plowed his fist into Halling’s chin. This, at least, wasn’t protected by fat, and as the Heir’s head snapped back, Catullus seized the totem from Halling’s weakening grasp.
The moment Catullus had the totem, he broke its hold over the hawks. The birds immediately stopped their bombardment, leaving Astrid and Lesperance free to face their enemies. But not before both sent Catullus looks of thanks.
Swift Cloud Woman sat up, a look of terror and hate crossing her face as she gazed into the forest. Then Catullus understood why.
He didn’t think he had ever been happier to see so many wolves.
Staunton spat out a clot of swearing as twenty wolves leapt into the encampment. They snarled, baring acres of gleaming teeth. The Heirs cringed. One of the wolves Astrid recognized as Iron Wolf, even bigger and more menacing than the others. At least, she thought with a bubble of giddy relief, the wolves were on her side.
“Don’t worry, Staunton,” Astrid said. “They won’t kill you. That’s my job.”
“I wouldn’t plan your victory celebration just yet,” Staunton retorted. He reached for a pouch at his waist. “Be sure to set some extra places at the table.” Then he flung the contents of the pouch onto the ground in a hail of numerous small, white objects.
One landed at Astrid’s feet. It was a rune—a little bone tile with an ancient symbol chiseled into its surface. She had only a moment to wonder what Staunton planned on doing with the fortune-telling stones when they all sank into the dirt as if being drawn under by unholy gravity. The ground shook.
Astrid staggered back as something began to rise up out of the earth, where each of the runes had disappeared. At first, she thought they were worms—pallid, thick worms that writhed in the dirt. But then the worms grew, and she saw something was attached at the base of each worm, a larger, fleshy object connecting the worms together. Then she sucked in a horrified breath. Those weren’t worms. They were fingers. Attached to hands. Which were connected to moldering arms. That were anchored to shoulders, and torsos. What looked to be scraggly weeds poking out of the earth pushed up in mounds, and then she realized the weeds were hair. Hair that patchily covered heads rising up from the dirt. Bits of skull showed between thatches of braided hair. The smell of decomposed flesh choked the air.
The creatures shoved and groaned their way out of the crumbling soil. Their skin held on to their bodies in rotted clumps, revealing gleaming bone beneath. Most of them were missing parts of their faces, their noses eaten away, cheeks either sunken or gone, eyes nothing but staring orbs in lidless sockets. All of the monsters wore crumbling leather armor and clutched rusty, heavy swords. A few held shields embossed with Celtic knotwork.
The creatures’ awful moans settled like sickly vapor in the clearing. With shambling, shuffling steps, they started toward the wolves.
Astrid stared, horrified, at Staunton, who grinned wildly.
“The undead?” she rasped. It was disgusting, a violation, and the Heir couldn’t have been more pleased.
“A good hostess should always be prepared for unexpected guests, Mrs. Bramfield. Quite sorry we don’t have Quinn’s body, or even your husband’s. Otherwise we could have resurrected them both and had them join the festivities.”
His taunt chopped into her. She had once wished so desperately for Michael to be brought back from the dead. Oh, she would see Staunton suffer. But first, she was going to have to do something about the zombie in her path.
In Nathan’s animal form, the reek of the undead warriors struck like a blow. But their smell wasn’t the worst of their arsenal. Though the creatures moved slowly, they were relentless. As wolves darted and snapped, the zombies pressed forward, swinging their huge, heavy swords. A yelp of pain announced that one of the undead had struck its target.
Nathan couldn’t count the number of undead summoned—close to four dozen, at least—but they outnumbered the wolves. Worse, nothing seemed to stop the warriors. No sooner would a wolf rip out a creature’s innards than it would rise again. Short of tearing the zombies into tiny pieces, there seemed no way to defeat them.
A host of guttural growls rolled from the darkness. When a group of fifteen bears appeared at the edge of the campsite, Nathan rumbled his own greeting. Among their number was Yellow Bear Woman, who had once captured him and Astrid and had been prepared to kill them for trespassing. Now she let out a quick growl of surprise to see him in bear form. But she and the other bears wasted no more time. They lumbered into the fight, and here at last the undead warriors found their match.
The wolves pushed zombies right into the path of the oncoming bears. With deafening roars and tearing claws, the bears shredded the creatures, even knocking one or two warriors’ heads clean off. Yet the warriors fought back, hacking and slashing with their hefty swords. The encampment became a loud, frenzied battleground—wolf, bear, hawk, undead, and human.
More humans. Yelling war cries, human Earth Spirits ran into the encampment, brandishing war clubs and battle-axes. Men and women, and all fighting expertly, facing off against zombies without a break in stride. Including, Nathan saw with a start, wizened little He Watches Stars, who wielded a formidable ax and darted, quick as a lizard, into the storm of animal and undead bodies.
But there was more here than animal and human. In the middle of the camp stood a werewolf. Distracted for a moment by an assault of wolves and humans, Bracebridge whirled back to Nathan. On powerful legs, the mage hurled himself at Nathan, and they grappled, a mass of claw and tooth.
“A fine rug you’ll make,” snarled Bracebridge.
Nathan responded by tearing deep gouges in the werewolf’s back.
A bird’s shriek sliced the air. Not a hawk. Falcon. The Heirs’ huge familiar had taken to the air, chasing hawks. It snapped at the smaller birds. Nathan watched grimly as one hawk screamed and fell, blood and feathers accompanying its descent. He shoved Bracebridge away and, shifting to wolf, leapt to intercept its fall.
Nathan just managed to catch the hawk on his back before carefully easing it down to a sheltered spot, where it made soft sounds of distress. A promise in his eyes that he would see to the hawk’s wounds, but something first had to be done about the falcon.
With a vault, Nathan sprang into the air, changing into his hawk. He pushed his wings, forcing himself up, dodging bullets shot by the Heirs’ marksman and the swords of the undead. As he rose higher, he cast a quick glance down. Below him, the battle was a churning throng of animal, human, and other. Astrid feinted and slashed at two advancing zombies. Graves sprinted toward the marksman, sidestepping attacks. Both Blades fought with precise skill, veteran warriors.
He neared the falcon, then joined the skirmish. The falcon stabbed with its massive beak and screamed its thirst for blood. Several hawks whirled away, carried off by injuries, thinning the numbers of Earth Spirits.
Nathan darted forward until he was just underneath the falcon. He flew beneath it, weaving from side to side to avoid its talons. He dipped a wing and rolled onto his back. He’d never flown upside down, and felt the challenge of staying on course. He heaved himself up and dug his talons into the falcon’s chest, then shifted into his bear.
The falcon screeched as his weight pulled them down from the sky. They spun toward the earth, the falcon frantically tearing at him with its talons and stabbing with its beak. But Nathan’s huge jaws and claws held more power. With a growl, he plunged his teeth into the bird’s neck, his claws into its chest, and tore.
Blood and viscera rained down onto the battle.
They landed together, Nathan with a grunt, the falcon without a sound. Nathan hefted himself up, shoving the bird’s limp carcass
to the dirt.
Above, the hawks cried out their tributes. Then circled down to rejoin the fight.
Bracebridge saw the lifeless body of his pet and howled in rage. The mage lunged for him. This time, when the werewolf and Nathan clashed, Nathan knew there would be no more distractions. One of them would die. And soon.
Catullus had no experience fighting the undead, but he was quickly learning the process was both arduous and disgusting. The damned creatures didn’t know when to stop, no matter how many limbs he hacked off with a borrowed battle-ax. Which left the ground littered with decaying arms and legs and other…things. Things he really had no wish to examine closer.
He stepped in something, dodging a swinging sword, and slipped, going down on one knee. An unidentified substance dampened and stained the knee of his formerly immaculate Saville Row trousers.
“If I make it out of this maelstrom,” he muttered, “I’m burning all these clothes.”
Thank God he had allies. The encampment was filled with what had to be the most unusual battle ever recorded. Everywhere was a surging mass of fur, flesh, and feathers. Wolves, bears, hawks, and humans attacked the zombie warriors, while some grappled with the remaining Heirs.
Catullus turned at the sound of a man’s scream. Not one of the Earth Spirits, but Halling. Judging by the pistol in his hand, the Heir had tried to shoot at an advancing wolf. But the wolf gripped Halling’s hand in its mouth, drawing blood. His shooting hand incapacitated, there was nothing the Heir could do but weakly hold up an arm to defend himself when a bear lunged at him. Halling’s next scream was cut abruptly short. He fell onto his back, and Catullus could only see flailing limbs as wolf and bear savaged their prey. One final twitch of Halling. And then he was dead.
But there was still the matter of Milbourne. The Heir coolly fired into the melee, wounding and felling Earth Spirits as calmly as if shooting tin cans rather than living beings. Catullus went for his own pistol.
And suddenly found himself thrown to the ground.
Swift Cloud Woman straddled him, her face twisted with rage, a jagged knife in her hand. She pinned his arms with her knees and held the knife to Catullus’s throat. The edge of the blade bit into his flesh, and he felt a warm trickle down his neck.
“Give them to me,” she hissed. “Give me the totems. Or I will cut your throat, black-skinned interloper.”
“Have…we…met?” Catullus rasped.
Teeth bared, she pressed the knife against him with one hand, while the other scrabbled over him, searching for the totems. Including fumbling over a very private part of his anatomy.
“Awfully…forward,” he said, hoarse.
He rocked one arm free and pushed it between her arm and his neck. He knocked her arm aside, taking the knife from his throat. She kept her hold on the hilt but was sufficiently unbalanced for him to rear up and throw her backward.
Swift Cloud Woman stumbled back, cursing in her native language, then spun when she collided with a large, dark wolf. Both wolf and woman snarled at each other.
“Iron Wolf,” she jeered. She beckoned with her knife. “Now Winter Wolf’s spirit will sleep, glutted on your blood.”
The wolf growled, then crouched, readying to spring.
Catullus had a fairly decent idea who might win that encounter, and as he turned away to focus on Milbourne, he heard the woman’s outraged screams. Looking back, he saw she lay unmoving in the dirt, the front of her buckskin dress black with blood. The wolf stood over her, its mouth stained red.
That Catullus did not kill Swift Cloud Woman might assuage his mother’s conscience, but it wouldn’t wipe his memory clean of seeing the Native woman’s torn, still body.
Milbourne fired in rapid succession, sending Earth Spirits scattering for cover.
Spotting an opening in the battle, Catullus sprinted for the darkness of the forest. The sounds of struggle masked his movements as he pushed, quietly and quickly, through the brush. He edged around until he was situated behind Milbourne. Some might call Catullus’s positioning dishonorable, but honor had little place when fighting for the lives of his friends and the safety of magic. Then he raised his own pistol and pulled the trigger.
The chamber clicked, empty. And so the next, and the next. Swearing silently, Catullus patted down his clothes, but found not a single damned bullet. He snorted at the irony. Famed inventor Catullus Absalom Graves, of the renowned Graves family, caught without enough ammunition.
He holstered his gun but moved forward. Time to take care of this without the advancement of gunpowder.
Milbourne didn’t know Catullus was behind him until Catullus’s hand chopped down on Milbourne’s arm. The Heir’s hand spasmed, causing him to drop his gun.
When Catullus spun Milbourne around, the Heir’s sangfroid vanished. Face dark with anger, he threw himself at Catullus.
The name he called Catullus wasn’t an unfamiliar one, but that didn’t make the oath any less ugly. “Colored men have no place in England,” Milbourne sneered. “It’s only for the worthy whites.”
“This from a man whose ancestors farmed and ate shit,” replied Catullus.
Milbourne snarled, then attacked with a swift series of blows that made Catullus realize the Heir wasn’t only an expert marksman, but a trained pugilist as well.
But so was Catullus. Thrice a week, at “Potato” McLaren’s boxing salon—more of an abandoned warehouse than a salon, but no one faulted Potato for his ambition.
The craggy Irishman’s lessons were deeply ingrained, as well they should be, after Catullus had frequented the salon for over a decade. So Catullus launched into a series of jabs and hooks at Milbourne that would have made his trainer proud.
Catullus took a hard jab to the chest, temporarily winding him, but he shoved past the pain. When Milbourne came at him again, Catullus caught him in a lock, threw him down to the ground, and jabbed a paralyzing elbow into his solar plexus. The look of shock on the Heir’s face was almost worth painting in miniature and wearing as a locket.
“That’s not…gentlemanly,” wheezed Milbourne. He sprawled, stunned, in the dirt.
“The benefits of training with a former merchant marine.” Catullus took a length of thin, tough cord from his coat and, in seconds, had Milbourne trussed like a calf. He crouched down to the feebly struggling Heir and gave his face a friendly pat. “I think the local population will truly enjoy treating you to their hospitality.”
Milbourne glanced over to where the Earth Spirits were busy reducing their undead enemy to pulp. Panic flared in Milbourne’s eyes, and he tried to twist free. Catullus sighed.
“This should help,” he said, and promptly knocked Milbourne unconscious.
Astrid spun away from the undead lurching toward her. They just kept coming. When one reached up to strike with its sword, she slashed, using her knife. The creature’s rotted flesh split beneath her blade until her knife rested against bone. Swallowing her revulsion, she trapped its arm between her own in a lock, then twisted. With a wet crunch, the zombie’s forearm broke off.
She snatched the creature’s hand before it hit the ground, then pried its fingers open and grabbed the sword’s grip. She let the forearm and hand fall to the dirt. And swung out with the sword.
It was a heavy weapon, but its weight gave it power. Using both hands, she chopped her way through the zombies that cluttered her path to Staunton, scattering limbs and, in one case, a head.
Staunton watched, smirking, as undead warriors swarmed her. But his smirk faded as she hacked down zombies—little caring that she was spattered with bits of flesh and slivers of bone. And when nothing stood between her and the man who had killed Michael, fear turned Staunton’s face chalky. No doubt she looked like a Valkyrie, her battle-crazed eyes, wild hair, and torn and bloody clothes.
They faced each other. The battle raging around them receded. Staunton clutched a knife while Astrid held a sword.
“Mine’s bigger,” she panted, smiling brutally.
&nbs
p; “You are the most troublesome bitch,” Staunton clipped. He ripped a sword from the hand of a nearby zombie, then waved it in front of him. “It was a pleasure to kill Bramfield, and it will be a pleasure to kill you. And then Graves and your Indian.”
“Please try,” she offered.
He lunged. She blocked his swing with her sword, and they pushed against each other, struggling for dominance. They fell apart, then slammed together again in a torrent of blows and parries. He looked stunned that a woman could wield a broadsword as well as she could. She didn’t tell him about the mock Viking battles she used to have with her father. When she saw her father again, she’d be sure to thank him.
If she saw him again.
Staunton thrust, then pivoted, bringing his sword around too quickly for her to block. She bit back a yelp when the blade caught her across the left arm. Blood ran from the gash and turned her hand sticky.
Seeing her wound, Staunton smiled. “I used to think there was no challenge in killing women.”
“How delightful that I changed your opinion.”
She unleashed a volley of strikes, with Staunton deflecting and striking his own thrusts. Both she and Staunton held their weapons in two-handed grips, putting everything they had into each blow. He had the advantage, being bigger and a hell of a lot less injured. She gritted her teeth against the pain shooting down her arm, and the older wounds left by the falcon on her shoulders and back.
Astrid’s gaze strayed to Nathan, needing to see him to help push her forward. The sight chilled her—him, in bear form, locked in a furious struggle against the werewolf. Like her, Nathan had been fighting, and fighting hard, for too long. He’d run untold miles in pursuit of her. While the mage was, if not rested, then certainly less tired. As she watched, the werewolf struck at Nathan with jagged claws, and Nathan growled in pain.
