Breed: Slayer

by Sandra Seymour

  “True,” he nods, “Howard and you are Tornicasa, and as such I am unable to intervene directly in any decisions he makes regarding the two of you. I can, of course, exert a subtle influence, but no more than that. However, Libby is not Tornicasa, is she? Since she is human, neither Moroi nor Strigoi and not bound in blood to any family, I have as much right to make the decision as Falk. Once she is removed, he will forget the distraction. He has got what he wanted from Howard. He will simply use Howard to control you instead.”

  “Falk and Alaric want me dead.” It’s a blunt statement, but he doesn’t contradict it. “Why don’t you? Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

  He smiles. “I believe you are something that they do not. Perhaps more importantly, they believe you are something that I do not.”

  I’m thinking that’s about as useful as garlic when he expands.

  “Falk believes all half breeds are tainted by the madness and it is only a matter of time before it manifests. He thinks this is the reason you become slayers, and hunt your brothers. Alaric’s own coven fell around the middle of the last century to The Breed, during a particularly vicious period, so he and his sons find it difficult to accept you or anyone like you. I, on the other hand, think there is more to you than they can imagine.”

  “And that’s why you’re trying to get the Princess to intervene?”

  I’ve never even seen this princess, and have no idea who or what she is, but I remember Howard saying if she did, the other’s wouldn’t be able to touch me.

  Quidel smiles again, and nods, but isn’t prepared to tell me anything more. He leaves, and I wonder why he is really helping us, and what he thinks he sees in me that the others don’t. Does he just want me to not be tainted because of his friendship for Howard? Is it pity for Libby that motivates him to help us get her out of here, or is he afraid of what she might do if she gains control of her own powers? Does he really think I’m different from the other slayers, or is he just trying to get me on side, and if so, to what end?

  I decide it doesn’t matter for now. My allies are in too short supply to question their motives too closely.

  AS THE OTHER vampires sleep, I pack Libby’s few belongings then pace around the room waiting for Father Patrick. Howard has not returned. Either he must be working through the day in the lab, or he has found somewhere to sleep nearby, so that he doesn’t waste precious moments before returning to his research when he wakes.

  When Father Patrick arrives around noon, he is accompanied by two nuns, and a human military escort, looking uncomfortable to be this side of the mountain. I guess the nuns must be Strigele witches. They are both stiff-backed and straight-faced, clearly not happy to be here. One of them is pushing a wheelchair. They both have piercing green eyes, and as I look at them, the older one looks at me. I freeze, feeling the blood drain from me. Her eyes widen in recognition, but her face shows no other sign of emotion.

  I have seen this woman’s death, felt her agony as the flames licked at her skin. I wonder if one of the other deaths was the younger woman’s, whose was the third, and what she has seen of my future, but she walks straight past me without greeting and they go about preparing Libby to leave. Father Patrick holds out his hands to me, clasping both of mine in his. I scan him, but there really is nothing to give him away; he has the aura of a human. That makes me feel better.

  “Maxine, my dear child, I am so sorry I was too late. I hoped to keep The Breed from discovering Howard. As it was, I killed that poor man for nothing.”

  I have trouble reconciling the description of a “poor man” with my memories of the slimy creep he’s referring to, but I understand Father Patrick’s sentiment. He abhors violence even more than I do.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me who you are?”

  “Howard thought if Libby knew there were those in The Coven who knew of his, um, failure to die, she would never have peace of mind, and that if you were to come under close scrutiny and give him away, you would also unwittingly be exposing their weakness to their enemies.”

  “Their weakness?”

  I’m not following the logic.

  “You must have noticed by now there are factions. Within The Breed there are those like Sam, bent on total destruction and others more amenable to peace. It is the same here in The Coven. Each of the clans has their own agenda. Although they stay together for the sake of the sanctuary, vampires are not natural pack animals. They are not the wolves many take them to be. Covens of this size exist solely as a defence against the humans. Left to their own devices, they would live solitary lives, and rarely come into contact with each other.

  “Why do you think they evolved with telepathic abilities?” he smiles. “So that they could communicate over long distances and tell each other to stay away. Ebner and his followers’ sole desire is for total domination, over humans and vampires alike. My father is a reasonable man, who serves only to protect his children. If The Breed were to learn the extent of their disagreements, they could use that information to drive a wedge between them, and shatter The Coven. Without all three elders, the sanctuary would fail, and they would be free to hunt the Strigoi here, as they do elsewhere.”

  “To be honest, I haven’t seen that much of The Coven. I mean, I’ve met Alaric, Falk, Quidel, and Faruk, but other than that, I haven’t seen another trueblood around. Surely there are more of them? And who is Ebner?”

  “Of course there are, though not as many as there once were. There are less than sixty trueblood Moroi in The Coven now. The others live in the mountains across the valley. You will see more of them soon, though not many. Mostly you will see lesser vampires. There are around two thousand of them. Alaric is Ebner, the elder and military head of the Ebner clan, as Quidel and Falk are the elders, and the military leaders, of the Elizondo and Tornicasa families. “

  I didn’t realise there were so many. This battle is going to be bloodier than I thought. That reminds me of the advancing enemy.

  “Father Patrick, what’s happening out there?” I ask, hoping to get an outside opinion.

  “Hunedoara is under heavy fire. If it has not fallen already, it will have by nightfall. When that happens, The Breed will make final preparations, and turn their full force here. I’d expect an attack the day after tomorrow. A force of around a hundred slayers and a sizeable human contingent, heavily armed.”

  “The Calugari?”

  He looks a little surprised to hear the word from me, but nods. “Some of them are with the forces, but Alexandru, their leader, is not. I think for him this is a test of our strength. The outside world is looking on it as the outbreak of a religiously motivated civil war, and calling on both sides to open negotiations, but I would not hold your breath if I were you. There are too many factions with their own agendas working behind the scenes to fuel the conflict to hope for a resolution.”

  I nod, thinking how strange it is to hear Father Patrick count himself among the vampires, and give him a quick hug. The nuns are ready to leave. I crouch before Libby and hold her hands in mine, dropping my head into her lap, but there is no response from her. It is as if her soul has taken flight, and what I see before me is nothing more than an empty shell. I stand and kiss her on the forehead. She is still burning with the fever, but her head is dry.

  I watch them leave and can only hope that Father Patrick will be able to get Libby to a safe distance before all hell breaks loose.

  It’s not that simple

  AFTER FATHER PATRICK leaves, my plan is to find Howard and hightail it out of here, but I’m beginning to agree with Howard about one thing: it’s not as simple as that.

  For one thing, we need to give Father Patrick and the nuns a good head start. There’s no point hopping over the walls right after them, or The Coven will come after us, and they might catch up with them instead. Although I’m pretty confident the Strigele will have ways of dealing with them, it’s not a chance I want to take.

  I don’t know how or why vampire-hunting nuns are worki
ng with a half vampire, unless they just wanted to get one of their own out of the war zone, but Howard’s reference to factions within factions is starting to make more sense.

  Then there’s the small matter of The Breed and the Calugari waiting on the other side of the walls. Of course, just two of us moving fast might be able to slip through them, but again, I don’t really want to gamble with Howard’s life like that.

  Plus, now that I understand a little more about The Coven, it doesn’t feel quite so hopeless staying here. Quidel seems to be fighting my corner, for whatever reason, and there is the hope of this Princess Lilleth’s protection. If Falk can be persuaded I’m not a threat, that will only leave Alaric’s clan to deal with. All in all, that doesn’t seem so bad, given the options.

  Finding my backpack on a small bed in an antechamber behind the second door of the main room, I take the opportunity to sleep for a few hours, then shower and change into my second clean pair of jeans, and an emerald smock, with gold, red, and blue embroidery around the neck. It’s an old favourite, and reminds me of home, and happier times.

  Trying to put my nostalgia aside, I munch on the fruit from the sideboard, finishing off the grapes, two bananas, an apple, and a pear. They quiet my stomach without satisfying my hunger. That leaves just two apples, one banana, and one pear. I must find some real food the next time I go to the other side of the mountain. The humans there must eat. They can’t all be going twelve hours every day without something other than fruit. I may not need blood, but the vampire in me needs meat.

  There are still a few hours until sunset, so I reach for the cello. I sit and begin to tune the instrument, warming up. But instead of playing, I simply cradle its neck and drift into a trance. I feel in control of my power, now I understand its source, and I feel the flow of it through me.

  I focus on Sam. I’m reluctant, but the need is pressing. I find his mind easily even over this distance, and watch his surface thoughts for a while, seeing him and his surroundings from the outside. He’s shouting at a bunch of slayers. Nell, ever at his side, mumbles some small correction, and he punches her in the face.

  A slayer who looks like Vinnie steps forward and raises his voice in anger. I feel a small surge of hope. Maybe he isn’t dead. After all, I didn’t take his head, or his heart. Sam spins on him and drop kicks him, then flies in and sits on his chest, punching and gouging repeatedly. His claws extend and he rips through the slayer’s skin, shredding it to ribbons. He does not kill though. Slayers are hard to kill, even for another slayer. They are even harder to replace. Sam needs them all now, but he needs them to fear him, to be subservient to his will.

  Just a few days ago, this level of attention would have alerted a slayer to my presence, but I have some subtlety now. Sam appears to be unaware of me. Cautiously, I move into his mind, and see through his eyes. His voice sounds thick and slurred. His vision is dimmer and more blurred than mine. His reactions are slower.

  I’m hoping to get some insight on Sam’s plan for attack, but that one word seems to sum it up. He has a cycle of recurring thoughts. He is imagining ripping the vampires apart and feeding on them. His need for blood and flesh burns as an addiction in his veins. Then he sees himself claiming the vampire nation, enslaving the remaining vampires, and replacing the tainted vermin with new purebloods.

  I can’t believe it, but he actually sees himself as a pureblood, a birth vampire rather than a half-breed. Now he’s indulging in a little sexual fantasy, starring myself in clothes that I can assure you I would never be caught dead in, and doing things that are just not going to happen this side of eternity. Or the other, for that matter. Finally, he’s seeing the other slayers bowing before him, and he actually has a crown on his head. It’s priceless.

  Sadly, it doesn’t tell me much I don’t already know. The man is a first grade lunatic. I quickly tire of his conscious thoughts, but am intrigued by the undercurrent of self-loathing that pervades them. He’s still unaware of me. He is stomping around, shouting orders, and flinging kit all over the place.

  “Why can’t you just shut up?” I ask, exasperated.

  To my amazement, he does just that, storming off into a corner and slumping down on a pile of sacks. Resisting the urge to test this new power by having him punch himself in the head and breakdance like a puppet, I decide to see how far I can push this instead.

  “Show me how you killed your mother,” I say, testing the waters. I’m gratified with the appearance of a vision of a woman who looks much like Sam.

  HER SKIN IS darker than his. Her hair is covered by a cloth, tied at the top of her forehead, made of the same rusty linen material as the badly fitting dress, tied at the waist, with what was once a white apron.

  Her face is swollen at the mouth and left eye, where purple bruising is beginning to show. The top of her dress is ripped across the front, baring her right breast, where a deep gash oozes blood, seeping into the material. She is sitting on a barn floor, on straw. Her arms are tied above her head to a sturdy wooden pole, which supports a hayloft. Her arms and legs are streaked with mud and blood.

  Opposite her is a white man bound in much the same way. He is wearing the garb of a southern gentleman, the high-collared white shirt and pale waistcoat stained with black tar around a broken wooden shaft, which is protruding from his heart.

  A much younger Sam, more lithe and athletic, and full of raw power and rage, paces between them. He spits as he yells obscenities at them, shredding their skin in turn, kicking and punching them intermittently.

  “You filthy, wanton whore!” He spits at the woman again, and punches her, breaking her jaw and ripping the skin. He turns and kicks the stake further into the man’s chest.

  “Blood sucking, slave screwing, murderous bastard!”

  He leans into the face of the vampire, and waits. The eyes flicker, but there is no other response. He turns round and looks into the corners of the barn, settling his sights on a scythe. He runs across the barn and grabs it, then runs back to the near-lifeless body.

  The woman watches and doesn’t even wince as he raises the scythe and slices the head clean off the body, burying the blade deep into the wooden pole behind him.

  The head rolls a few feet and rests facing the woman in a pool of thick dark blood, the mouth open and the eyes staring. She doesn’t blink.

  “What, no tears for your poor dead lover, mother?” The spittle flies from Sam’s mouth, and the veins in his neck are throbbing.

  The woman’s face is so badly disfigured she can’t attempt to speak, but she shakes her head, staring at the corpse of her owner and tormentor.

  “What, you expect me to believe you didn’t want it? You didn’t pussy up to the masser, hoping to get a little extra gruel?”

  Her eyes, the only method of communication left to her, suggest that’s exactly what she wants him to know, but that just enrages him more.

  “Stinking, lying, lousy harlot!”

  He rips deep gouges across her belly, spilling her guts onto the straw, and then stands above her, watching the entrails writhe like snakes, in horrified fascination.

  Her body shudders and twitches, her eyes rolling back into her head. Sam is filled with so many emotions he feels like his head is going to explode: rage, hatred, terror, revulsion.

  Beneath them all runs a deep current of self-loathing, a burning desire to wake from this nightmare, and be cradled in the soft, comforting arms of his mother. Choking it down, he feels an overpowering need to prove something to her, and to himself. To defeat the monsters, he vows, he will become something worse than them. He will become an ogre, a titan among men.

  He reaches down and snatches up a handful of her guts, biting into them as the life drains from her face, her breath coming in shallow jagged mouthfuls of air. He stands over her, blood dripping down his chin, until the last signs of life have faded.

  “No wonder you never wanted me,” he says, as he turns and walks from the barn.

  Don’t lose your head


  I’M STILL THINKING about Sam and how to use this new insight against him, when sunset falls, but my reverie is broken abruptly when the door flies off its hinges and Falk stalks into the room. To say he’s pissed off is an understatement.

  “Where is she?” His eyes scan the room in one swift movement, and verify Libby’s absence.

  “You!”

  He has me by the throat and up against the wall. My feet are inches off the ground.

  “What have you done with the witch?”

  His claws are digging into my throat, and my head is beginning to swim. It’s not because of the lack of air. Thanks to Dillon, I am aware I can last for some time without it. I try telling myself to relax the muscles in my neck, but Falk has trapped the veins so that blood is pumping into my brain, but can’t get back out, and the pressure is building.

  “I should declare your life forfeit and be done with you,” he tightens his grip, and the blood is rushing in my ears, the pressure behind my eyes causing me to see spots.

  “Come, come, Falk,” Quidel has entered the room with Faruk, Tilda and Howard. Alaric is not far behind them. “The witch was nothing but a distraction. I had her removed, not the whelp.”

  Falk releases me, and I drop to the ground, gasping and shaking my head to clear it. For now, remaining crouched on the ground, but ready to move, seems like the best course of action.

  “You?” Falk turns in disbelief to Quidel. “You defy me?”

  He takes a step towards Quidel, and Faruk moves to step between them, ready to protect him. Quidel motions him to stand back and steps towards Falk himself. They are both showing their fangs now.

  “Careful, Falk. I have done nothing that was not in my authority to do. Your dominion over Tornicasa does not extend to the human.”

  “The Strigele whore was bound to him,” Falk’s voice goes from a deep growl to a high-pitched shriek.

  “The Coven does not recognize those bonds,” Quidel’s voice, in contrast, is calm, but the vein in his temple is throbbing.