I hear the sound of a clasp springing open, like something on a small case. “You have a special kit for this?” I ask. My scoffing will only mean more pain for me later, but I need it now—anything to keep my wits. I think of Annelise again, this time with new insight, finally understanding why she’s always so quick with a sarcastic barb. I let my own barbs rip now…for her. “Or was that just the sound of a wee chess set popping open? Though, actually, you seem more like a backgammon man. You going to challenge me to a match?”
“Your goading does you no credit, young Tracer. Alcántara has clearly lost control of you. It seems it’s up to me to teach you a lesson.” He runs a fingernail down my naked back, along my spine. “Have you heard of the Blood Eagle? It’s a method of torture much favored in the Icelandic sagas.”
He’s at his case again, rifling about. He’s selected something. I hear the whisper of metal sliding against leather—a dagger pulled from a sheath?
“Such a glorious thing,” he says, once more at my back. “Modern historians believe the Blood Eagle is merely the stuff of fiction. The skaldic poems could be particularly, shall we say, fierce. But I was there, you’ll recall. It was a time when fiction wasn’t much more brutal than fact. Indeed, I’ve seen the Eagle performed with my own eyes. I’ve always wanted to try it.”
A metal tip touches my skin. “The Norse ways were so much more than just crude sadism. We appreciated subtleties of metaphor, ones that transcend simple pain. Because true anguish goes beyond the mere physical, yes? It’s a psychological state, something profound and moving.”
With the lightest tickling touch, he traces his blade lightly down my spine. Bump, bump, over every rise and fall of each rib. “To perform the ritual properly, one must cut each rib by the spine. And then you splay them out into great wings. The lungs are revealed, of course, delicately flapping like an eagle’s feathers. The effect is quite magnificent.”
He sinks the tip of his blade into my skin and holds it there. “Shall we try it?” He twists the metal deeper. “Unless you wish to tell me who sent you? Who do you work for? Who do you protect?”
I pull in a deep breath—Annelise…I would’ve liked to see you one more time—and let it out with a great exhale. I’ve released more than just air from my body.
I am ready.
“I’d thought listening to you talk was the torture,” I say blithely, while inside I brace for my own death.
Without pause, Dagursson slams down his hand. But as his knife hits my rib, it’s deflected, dashed to the side, slicing under my skin instead, filleting me like a fish. I gasp, then bite down on my lips. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Hurt?” He removes the blade from beneath my skin and taps the exposed bone.
“Oh, have we started?” I ask, managing to keep my voice calm. Annelise would’ve appreciated the line, I think.
I imagine her grief at my death. Carden will comfort her. He’ll take care of her, and for that I’m grateful. The thought stabs more deeply than any blade. But I am grateful.
Instantly, he tries again, and this time he hits his mark. But still the bone doesn’t snap. His knife has gone deep, though, and a warm wash of blood courses down my back.
I smell it, taste it, it’s all around me. Rushing, pooling. I realize it’s in my mouth, on my tongue, bitten from keeping quiet. I experience a jumble of sensations—the warmth of all that blood, but there’s cool, too, in my head, tingling from its loss.
“You’re right,” he says. “We haven’t really begun, Tracer. We will go all day. Unless you have something to say to me?”
“No,” I say, but the word doesn’t come out right. I clear my throat and begin again. “No,” I repeat clearly, “not that I can think of.”
“Shame.” He has at me again, chiseling as if I’m a mound of stone. “Bone is so hard to crack. This will take several”—he strikes again—“more”—and again—“attempts.”
I realize the pain is beginning to suck me in. Focus. I’ve trained for this. I mustn’t lose control.
I concentrate on Annelise. Her face is the locus of my meditation as I systematically imagine each part of my body, forcing it to relax, to melt away. My self—the essence that is me—gradually recedes until I’m no longer my body. My body has become mere flesh, apart from my mind. It is what’s being tortured—not me.
I compartmentalize my mind. The rational part—the one reserved for escape—races, seeking a way out. I scrutinize Dagursson’s every move. Somewhere, my chance awaits—there’s always a chance. I just need to know it when I see it.
As for the rest of my mind, I erect a wall before it, guarding it. The finest cord connects it to the darkness inside me, to that deep pool of power within, and I hold fast as it shimmers and waits for my call.
Sadly, my body can’t be compartmentalized. I can only flex and gird for Dagursson’s onslaught. He strikes and slashes, and I force myself to sway under his hand. To make him think he’s in charge, that he’s beating me. I’ll bend, but I’ll never break.
He’s grunting now. I hear his dissatisfaction. If he’d hoped I’d shout and cry and shriek, I’m determined to disappoint.
“You’re a strong one.” He throws down his knife with a clatter. “This is too blunt.” Once again he’s rifling through his tools, and my rational mind clings to the sound. I could let go and slip away, but it’s not in me to give up. I have to hold on. “Perhaps something with a hook will help crack the stubborn bone,” he mutters.
There’s a knock at the door, and for the briefest second, it shatters the energy in the room. It’s what I needed.
A rush of blood prickles through my brain. It’s coursing again, bringing oxygen and strength. Clarifying my thoughts. I crane my neck to meet his eye. “Need to break for office hours?” I manage a smile, tasting blood on my teeth.
“I see I’ve yet to beat the impertinence from you.” He comes to stand at my shoulder, too close for me to see his face.
There’s another knock. I see from below how his jaw tenses. I look to the door, staring, waiting for that opportunity I know is out there.
He smacks the back of my head. “Ignore it. They’ll go away.”
“Please, don’t let me keep you from your duties.” I begin to call out, “Come—” but the vampire has grabbed my shirt and is stuffing it in my mouth.
The knob slowly turns, and the door creaks as it’s tentatively pushed open. “Hello? Master Dagursson? I’ve been working on the irregular Norse declensions and…” A curly-haired Acari pops her head in. She spots me and widens her eyes. “Oh. Sorry. I can—”
The vampire is at the door in a blink. “Office hours are cancelled today,” he says and slams it shut.
He strolls back to me. “You persist in being foolish. You must make yourself worthy if you’re to bear the wings of the Blood Eagle.”
Sweat drips into my eyes, and I blink hard, glaring at him. If I could spit out this shirt, I’d tell him what I thought of his bloody bird.
“Now, where were we?” He’s grabbed a thin, hooked instrument, which he taps in his palm. “Ah, yes. You were going to tell me what, precisely, Alcántara has to do with this.”
I raise my brow and shrug. My way of saying, I’m gagged, dimwit.
“You see, Ronan, you’re what we call muscle. I don’t quite believe that you have the capacity or the wherewithal to act alone.” He pulls the shirt from my mouth, shaking it out with a look of disgust. “So, speak.”
“I’m not a dog, Alrik.”
“So don’t speak. However you wish. I’m losing patience.” He storms behind me. I have only a second to brace before he plunges the hook into my skin, wrenches it around bone, and snaps.
A loud crack—so wrong, so visceral—fills my skull. The sound of my bone splitting. Pain so complete it stuns me, rips through me. Shards of bone tear tender flesh from within, searing me. The heat burns, too, the feel of my blood trickling down skin that’s been deadened into cold gooseflesh.
I black out for a second and come to with a gasp. I can’t let go. I keep holding on for Annelise, for that elusive opportunity that still might present itself. For a moment—an absurd, ridiculous moment—I’d hoped that was her at the door. But hope is for children, and I’m no child. I’m about to be a dead man.
How will Freya react to my senseless death, to this lesson she teaches out of spite? Will she aim her sights at Annelise instead? I know Carden will be as good as his word, that he’ll protect her. So why can’t I just shut my eyes and let myself go into the darkness?
As I feel the blood pumping from me, I think of my sister. Tall, black-haired, lionhearted Charlotte. Will I see her again after I die? Is there an afterlife where I’ll see all of them? All the people I’ve cared for who’ve been taken from me. Is Lottie watching me even now, from above, waiting to help ease my passage? She was always so fierce and determined, almost uncontrollably so. I’d have thought nothing could defeat her. Are there others? Do they look like her? Like me?
“Tell me,” I say to Dagursson. The words sap the last of my energy, but before I die, I need to know. “Just tell…what happened…my family.”
He considers me, theatrically tapping his chin, reveling in his triumph. “I suppose everyone should get a final wish.”
The door crashes open.
He bellows, “I said no office hours.”
I can no longer lift my head. I am drifting in a warm cocoon. I hear Annelise’s voice and wonder if I’ve died.
“I won’t be long,” she says. “I’ve just come to get Tracer Ronan.”
CHAPTER NINE
Annelise bursts into the room, arms and legs pumping. I whisper her name—the mantra that’s keeping me alive. She pauses to throw two quick stars—one for Dagursson’s chest, one for his throat—then spins away. She’s behind the table now, from where she throws another. She’s a dervish. A maniac. A creature of beauty and grace.
And it won’t be enough. We’ll need more than throwing stars to kill Dagursson.
Moving slowly, deliberately, he puts down his tools. He paces toward her.
I find my voice and shout, “Go. Ann. He’ll kill you.”
She jogs backward away from the vampire—but it’s away from the door. Away from escape. She shoots me a quick smirk of bravado. “You know I hate being told what to do.”
She can’t do this alone—I won’t let her. I pull myself out from where I’d sunk deep in my subconscious, pull myself back into the moment. My body ignites with pain.
I’m electric, every cell roused to life. Each beat of my heart is a pulse of agony and fury. And fear, too—that Dagursson will tie her up and make me watch him do to her what he’s been doing to me.
“Tracer Ronan, you are being quite rude,” Dagursson says in a chillingly calm voice. He continues to prowl toward Ann, beckoning, “Don’t go, child. I’m so very pleased you’re here. We were just discussing the difference between pain and anguish. Now that you’ve joined us, we can more fully explore the concept.”
“Acari Drew,” I yell sternly. “You will get out of here. Right now.” I’ve used my teacher’s voice, and though it earns me a surprised look, she doesn’t listen.
Dagursson also ignores me. The table has halted his approach, and he pauses to lean casually across from her. “How did you know Ronan and I were sharing time together?” His pose is nonchalant, but it’s clear he’s poised for attack.
I shuffle my feet beneath my chair, frantically jerking my shoulders from side to side, but I’m trapped like a rat. Blood runs along my arms, down my back. The acuteness of the pain is gone, pushed to some faraway place in my mind. All I know is that I must help her. Annelise must survive.
She shrugs with the brave calm that’s kept her alive this long. “A little bird told me you two were hanging out.”
Dagursson considers for a moment then nods. “Ah. Your little bird would be Acari Regina, come for office hours. Am I right? She’s the only one who interrupted our little tête-à-tête.”
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Annelise says blandly.
The vampire gives a knowing smile. “Ever the loyal friend.” He looks at me. “Is that what draws you to her? Everyone else abandoned you, but here is an Acari, weak and lonely, who cannot leave?”
Dagursson is wallowing in this strange exchange, a child getting his moment of glory. But it works for me—with time comes opportunity. “Annelise might be many things,” I say, making my tone as calmly conversational as possible, “but weak isn’t one of them.”
“Aw, thanks, Ronan.” She beams at me, and even though I know she’s just playing along, for an instant I feel lit from within.
Dagursson’s brow pinches. “I wonder at the connection between the two of you. I tried to warn Alcántara, but he dismissed it.” He peers intently at her. “Hugo refuses to kill you, but why? What secrets do you hide?”
His eyes are roving up and down her body, and I jerk and fight against my bonds until the urumi slices deep into my belly. “Look at me instead, coward,” I say, trying vainly to wrestle free. “She’s not hiding anything.”
But the vampire is focused now, focused only on her. “You are a key, Acari Drew, and yet I fear what door you’ll unlock.” His hand skims across the table, sliding like a snake toward her. “I must kill you myself, I suppose.” He leans, reaching closer. “Apologies, my child. It really is such a waste. But you’re simply too dangerous to live.”
“And too stubborn to die,” she says with a wild smile. She throws her last star, and rather than aiming for Dagursson, she’s aimed for his sleeve, pinning him to the wood.
It takes him only a second to tear his arm free, but it buys her enough time to dart away yet again, dashing for a small sofa before the hearth. She leaps onto it, her small feet dashing along the back edge, and hops up to grab one of a pair of crossed fencing sabers hanging there. “I’ve always wanted to try one of these,” she says giddily.
She’s mad. And it gives me hope.
Dagursson purses his lips, the distaste clear on his face. “Young lady, there’s no call for you to be racing about like a jackal.” I see how he wants to fly at her, tear into her, but he merely stalks toward her, one feral cat tracking another. “We can be civilized about this.”
“Civilized?” She executes a quick hop around him. “Decorum class was last semester.” She’s at my back now and whispers, “Just a sec,” as she quickly wriggles the saber between the urumi and my body.
Coaxing Dagursson away from me has been her plan all along, and he shakes his head, walking toward us. “You children persist in trying my patience. What is it you think to accomplish with this farce?”
He’s standing right over us now, and she wrenches the saber. Steel slashes my palm. She gasps, mutters, “Sorry,” but a moment later the urumi uncurls from my waist and falls to the ground, coiling back up with a sharp snap.
I try to find my feet and rise, but instantly double over, a veil of black dropped over my vision. Every breath is an agony.
“Enough,” Dagursson thunders. “I thought we’d have a pleasant discussion, but I see we must do this the hard way.” He swoops behind her and pins her in his arms.
I lunge for him but stumble as I launch from my seat. My torso is on fire. “Let her go.”
I’m moving in slow motion, but Dagursson only stands there, watching me as he holds her, wearing an expression of serene patience. “Are you quite recovered?” he asks me. “Because I think I’d like you to watch.” He sniffs deeply, devouring her throat with his eyes. “Watch as I take my prize.”
“Face me,” I scream. I’m on my feet, staggering toward them, the urumi back in my hand. My physical pain is gone, all that remains is this black sea of hatred churning inside me. “Coward, look at me. Take me. You wanted me.”
But he doesn’t look away from her throat—his pupils are dilated now, entranced only by her. “There are cleaner ways to kill a girl,” he says in a low, considering voice. He wr
enches her neck back and studies it. Licks a fang. “But this will be a rare treat.”
She elbows him—not nearly hard enough to hurt a vampire—but it startles him, distracts him.
“Silly girl,” he growls. She curls herself closer into him as he readjusts his grip,. “That’s right, come to me.” A hungry smile curves his lips. He opens his mouth.
“Silly, sure.” Her sleeve is tugged back. I spot a glimmer of silver in her hand. “But not stupid.”
She raises her fist, swivels, and slashes.
At first I think she’s missed him. She only flailed at him—a jerking motion, a quick flash of blade. Enough for a minor flesh wound, maybe. Not enough to do anything but anger him.
But Dagursson shrieks.
He lurches backward, hands cupped over his face. And then I spot the smoke drifting from between his fingers.
“Ann,” I call, stumbling toward her. “Look at me. Are you okay?” She nods wordlessly, staring at Dagursson.
We’re both astounded. I lean against her, fighting to suppress my pain. “What did you do?”
There’s a shift in energy, a pulsing, and slowly the vampire rises, stands tall. He lowers his hands from his face. A grisly black wound runs down his cheek. It’s smoldering.
His attention swings to Annelise. He’s zeroed in on the weapon in her hand. “Show me your weapon.” His voice is an inhuman drone, piercing my ears, reverberating in my chest. Rage has deformed his face, making him look more demon than man. “Show me, girl. What do you have?”
My reaction is instant. I insert myself in front of her. I can’t raise my right hand, and so I lift the urumi in my left. “She has me.”
“How quaint.” He spits the words at us, then grabs a fistful of my hair, shoving my head aside to get a better look at her. “Acari, you will hand me that dagger. Give me the dagger, and I promise to be quick as I kill the boy.” He gives my head a shake.
Dark Craving: A Watchers Novella Page 8
