Breed: Slayer

by Sandra Seymour

  I stand slowly, and start to move round behind Falk, towards Howard and the others. Alaric steps into the gap, his eyes narrowed and his jaw set.

  “She is the mother…”

  “The human mother. Your claim over the offspring comes through the father. It stems from the Moroi blood, and extends no further. You have made that quite clear to me over the years, have you not?”

  Falk glares at Quidel, but the point has been won. I suspect an old score has been settled too, some wrong Father Patrick’s mother suffered at Falk’s hands avenged, and wonder if that’s part of the reason Quidel was so keen to help us.

  “Besides,” Quidel walks over to Falk and takes him by the arm, talking as if they had not just been facing each other down, ready to fight, “with the woman out of the way, this Cursa Moroaicaăis free to focus her attention on the battle to come.”

  The tension in the room is starting to ebb. Their fangs have receded, and they both have their human faces safely in place again. It looks as if Quidel has played a clever hand, but Alaric is not going to let this pass without trying to tip the scales. The change in him is quicker than any I have seen, and before I know it, he has grabbed my arm and spun me so that I fall backwards into him.

  He has an arm across my chest and he is pulling my face to one side. His talons are digging in under my ear and behind my jawbone. The pain is like electricity shooting up and down my spine, and I scream before I am aware of it. He pushes my shoulder down with his other hand, straining the muscles in my neck until they burn. Surely he can’t be planning on biting me? I’m immune. Or am I? I’ve never been bitten by a Moroi before, only Strigoi. Would that make any difference? Would it kill me? Change me somehow? Would that give Alaric a claim over me, and increase his influence in The Coven?

  Then the skin starts to tear in my shoulder. The muscles ripping and I scream again. It takes all my focus to prevent myself passing out. He’s not going to bite me; he’s trying to rip my head off.

  “You said it yourself,” Alaric says to Falk, his voice calm and steady, showing no signs of exertion, “she will turn on us the first chance she gets.”

  “No!” I cry. I’m taking shallow broken breaths, but I try to plead for my life.

  Falk looks at me with that same quizzical look he had in the lab, as if he is still trying to make me out. His expression shows no concern for my welfare. He would probably be glad if Alaric took my head off and rid him of the issue. He turns back to the others.

  Quidel’s eyes are locked on me, his brow knit in a deep frown. As Falk turns towards him, the concern drops from his face, and he meets the other’s gaze with a smooth, untroubled mask.

  “You know my thoughts, cousin. We need her.”

  “She will turn, I tell you,” Alaric gives another tug on my jaw, and presses down on my shoulder again, forcing another scream from me in response to the popping of bones. It feels as though my face is tearing in two. He’s going to kill me whatever they say.

  “No!” Howard steps forward, “She has no love for The Breed. It was me who forced her to join them, for my own protection.”

  He kneels before Falk, and there are tears streaming down his face. “Please, grandfather, forgive my weakness. Do not take it out on her.”

  “She has no love for us either,” Alaric insists, but he releases the pressure slightly and the searing pain subsides into a dull roar.

  A small sigh, that sounds more like a whimper, escapes me.

  “Can you blame her for that, brother? After all, we haven’t exactly been the most welcoming of hosts.”

  “Welcoming?” Falk turns on Quidel, and it’s clear he has made an error of judgement. “You think we should welcome a rasa slayer into our midst? No,” he shakes his head, turning to Alaric, “she is…”

  Alaric exerts pressure again, and I feel veins and muscles in my neck begin to separate and cold air flowing through the widening gap, which just makes the burning more intense. I am screaming and kicking furiously, but I can’t break free and the pain is too much to bear.

  “Tatal, NO!”Tilda steps forward and grabs Falk’s hands, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. “Stop this. Has she not suffered enough?”

  She walks from Falk to me, and cups my face in her hands, leaning in to me, touching her forehead to mine. Her skin is cool and soothing, and the pain begins to fade.

  “Be still, little one,” her voice is like honey, anaesthetic flowing through my veins. Finally, I understand what she was trying to do for Libby, and that I have misjudged her terribly.

  “Very well,” Falk says simply. “Release her.”

  For a moment, there is no change in the pressure on my neck, and I’m worried Alaric might just kill me anyway. I’m just thankful it won’t hurt so much with Tilda working her magic on me. Then the pressure is gone, and I slump against her.

  I feel my weight being lifted as someone scoops me up, but then the blackness descends, despite my efforts to remain conscious to hear the rest of the conversation.

  When I start to come round, I am on the bed, with Tilda sitting beside me, stroking the side of my face.

  “I’m sorry, I thought you were ...”

  “Shush,” her voice soothes as much as her touch, “don’t worry about that now.”

  I can feel the muscles and veins starting to knit back together already, but I still feel dizzy and weak. It’s a while before I realise the others have left. As I drift into sleep, Tilda moves away too.

  I DON’T SLEEP for long. When I wake up the wound has healed except for a livid red mark, but my neck and shoulder still feel stiff and sore. I rub my neck with my hand, and roll my shoulder, trying to loosen it up, as I head for the door.

  When I open it, Faruk is standing in the corridor, his back to the door. He turns around, but doesn’t move to get out of my way.

  “What? Am I a prisoner again now?”

  Why is Quidel’s flunky guarding me, rather than Falk’s.

  “No,” He shakes his head and guides me back into the room, “but there are other Moroi arriving who might share Alaric’s opinions but not his sense of propriety.”

  “Propriety? Is that what you call it round here when you try to kill each other?”

  Faruk takes a breath and releases it in a huffing sigh. “That was more what I meant by his opinion. Alaric only moved against you when Falk intimated your life should be forfeit, and released you when he changed his mind. That’s what I meant by his sense of propriety. Some of the younger Moroi may be more concerned with currying favour with Alaric than keeping on the right side of the rules, particularly among his own clan. His three sons, for instance, are not well known for their warm and generous natures. Howard felt you might be vulnerable, and Quidel asked me to watch out for you, that’s all.”

  “Oh well, if that’s all ...”

  I walk to the window, turning my back on him and staring out over the valley. My head is buzzing with a dozen thoughts, and none of them are comforting. If Quidel has just now asked Faruk to watch out for me, because I might be vulnerable, does that mean up to now he’s thought I’ve been safe? Just when I was beginning to think there was some hope of survival here, it looks like my actions have provoked a fury in The Coven that makes their behaviour up to now seem positively friendly. How strong are the truebloods that want to kill me? How many of them are there? And how far will they go?

  If they do attack, what does “watching out for me” amount to? Will Faruk take on the other Moroi on my behalf, or just go fetch Quidel? What can Quidel do, anyway? He is old, and compared to Alaric, weak. Would he really risk outright conflict with the other elders to save me? Why? I’m nothing to him except maybe a pet project. Surely when it comes down to it, he’s not going to risk his position here for me?

  Clearly, convincing Falk that I am not a threat is going to be harder than I thought. All Quidel has done is buy me a short reprieve. Now that I understand Tilda better, I realise without her, I would probably be dead already. I’ve been h
orrible to her, and if I get out of this alive, I’m going to have to do something to make it up to her. What is it about me that scares Falk anyway? Because he is afraid of me, beneath that cool appraising glare, that much I’m sure of.

  And why does Alaric want to kill me so badly? Is it really just because I’m a half-breed, or is it because Quidel’s standing up for me is highlighting the fact he has less influence than either Falk or Quidel? Evidently, he is stronger than me; I’m no real threat to him. My mind still racing through all these questions and more, I nod towards the window.

  “They’re coming in for the battle, right?”

  I remain by the window looking out into the mountains.

  Faruk nods. “About thirty of them altogether.”

  “I thought there were closer to sixty?”

  I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to give my source away but still curious about the discrepancy in numbers. If Faruk is surprised, he’s not showing it.

  “There are almost sixty true vampires in The Coven here, yes. Normally only the three elders visit the base, but in times of crisis, those who are able will gather here to defend the nation. The others are either too young, or have ascended.”

  “Ascended? What does that mean? They’re Vampire Gods or something?”

  I turn from the window and walk to the bed, sitting on its edge.

  Faruk laughs, a deep melodic sound that I have never heard before, yet it seems strangely familiar.

  “You really are ignorant aren’t you?”

  I try to be offended, but I can’t summon the energy.

  “I forget how young you are,” He looks down at me and his face turns more serious. He moves to the chair nearest the bed and sits too. “In human terms, ascension for a vampire is more like retirement than death, though there are some physical changes involved.”

  “So, if the three elders are normally the only ones on the base, what are you doing here?”

  Faruk looks at me, his head pulled back and his eyes narrowed.

  “How can you tell?”

  I shrug. “You can tell a human from a vampire right?”

  “Yes, but not between Moroi and Strigoi. Few can, except by dress and rank.”

  “Well, I can. The fingernails, for a start. In living vampires, they come out from under the nail sheath. But humans only have the one nail. An undead vampire’s nails harden and grow back to the knuckle, with a ligament that allows them to extend and retract, but they’re not like normal nails even when they’re retracted. Then of course there’s the fact they don’t sweat, and the smell, and their eyes. They don’t dilate naturally. They have to think about it, and remember to blink too.”

  The corners of Faruk’s mouth twitching tell me he knows all this already. Perhaps the truebloods are just so used to identifying the undead in other ways they don’t need to take so much notice of the little things any more.

  “The only thing I can’t tell is between Moroi and rasa, apparently.”

  “The terms are Sange Moroi and Cursa Moroi, “blood vampire” and “of the vampire race.” Rasa is actually an insult.”

  “Oh. And Strigoi is the equivalent for a dead vampire, those, like Howard, who were once human?”

  Faruk nods.

  Fascinating as this little lesson is, and as much as I’d like to get to the bottom of just where the Strigele fit into this, and what that makes me, I can’t help noticing Faruk hasn’t answered my question.

  “So, what are you doing on the base then?”

  “My father is nearing ascension, and unless my older brother returns in time, I will be expected to take his place as the eldar.”

  “Your father? You mean Quidel?” I guess I really have been missing things these last few days. “But I thought Father Patrick was exiled? Besides, surely The Coven would never allow a rasa to become an elder?”

  Faruk laughs again, and shakes his head.

  “No, they would not. Though fortunately, that will never become an issue. Patrick, despite appearances, is my younger brother. My older brother prefers to take a more active role. He quit The Coven two centuries ago. It was he who found Patrick and returned him to the fold when his mother died. It was an attempt, I believe, to begin a process of reconciliation between the vampires and their dhampir offspring that sadly failed.”

  “But they would take him back if he returned?”

  “They would have no choice. The Moroi Romanesti have strict rules. If he is there on my father’s ascension, he will automatically become the eldar of the Elizondo creed, regardless of any objections.”

  It must be tough on Faruk, preparing for a role he has no idea whether he’ll ever attain. I have to ask.

  “How would that affect you? What would you do then?”

  I’m surprised when Faruk smiles wistfully. “I would return to the sanctuary of the mountains and be glad.”

  He looks at me, and there is mischief in his pewter eyes that again seems familiar.

  “Or perhaps venture out into the world again and see how the last few hundred years have changed it. The role of an eldar of The Coven is not all about privilege and power. If I had other brothers, I would have left long ago, too.”

  Faruk stands, and starts to leave. I stand to follow him, but he turns back and says.

  “No. You stay here for now, Moroaica. I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  Tag, You’re It

  WHILE I PONDER the politics of the Moroi Romanesti and their Strigoi offspring, Faruk stands guard at my door. Now that I know who he is, I can’t help feeling the job is more than a little beneath him. After all, I am Cursa Moroi at best, and he is in line to become the elder of The Coven.

  I’m sick of playing prisoner, though, and after pacing the room for a while, decide I have to get out. It’s time I saw a little more of this place, instead of sitting around waiting for the enemy to attack.

  I open the door and Faruk turns, his eyebrows raised. I take a breath and step past him, determined not to be corralled back into the room again.

  “So, what does a vampire do around here for fun?”

  “Fun?” he says the word as if he’s never heard it before, but the corners of his mouth turn up, and his eyes glint in the dim light. “Somehow I doubt you and the Strigoi have the same idea of fun.”

  I give him my best not-amused face, and he exchanges it for a not-my-problem expression, but at least he isn’t trying to coop me back up.

  Eventually he huffs. “Fine. Well, let me see. You could go back to the lab and help Howard and the other Strigoi work on weapons to destroy The Breed or, if that’s not to your liking, volunteer a little more blood to help eradicate the rasa nebunie. That means “race insanity,” by the way. Most of the vampires around here believe the Cursa Moroi suffer an inherited disease that eventually turns them all mad, and turns them against other vampires. No?”

  “I think I’ve seen enough of the lab. What else?”

  “Well, you could wander around aimlessly waiting for the Sange Moroi to try to eliminate you, or send their Strigoi to do the job for them?”

  “I had something a little more constructive in mind.”

  “Oh, okay. Well, in that case, you could join the Strigoi in training, let them practice trying to kill you in anticipation of the arrival of your friends.”

  “Now, that sounds like fun,” I tell him and stride past him.

  “I was only joking,” he lets me walk the length of the corridor before stopping me. “Um, Maxine?”

  “Yes?” I glare at him, daring him to try and stop me.

  “This way.”

  He turns and walks off the other way, forcing me to hurry to catch up.

  I FOLLOW FARUK back through the mountain by a different route, and we come out back in the courtyard, which is strangely deserted. We enter an enormous concrete building.

  Inside there is no flooring or decoration of any kind, just a huge expanse of bare cement. Scattered around the room are around fifty Strigoi, spa
rring in pairs and small groups. They are all dressed in the same black boots, black-belted black cargo pants and black polo neck sweaters. These guys have no imagination, and someone really should tell them that black just isn’t their colour. It accentuates the pallor of their skin, and makes them look washed out and sickly. I mean, why go to the trouble of hiding the tell-tale puncture wounds on the neck if you’re just going to wear clothes that make you look like a corpse anyway? I imagine letting Tilda loose on their uniforms, and have to cough to hide the resulting giggle.

  The fifty Strigoi stop their sparring, and turn. All eyes are on me, and suddenly this doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

  Faruk steps forward. I don’t know what I’m expecting him to say, but it certainly isn’t, “So, who’s up for a game of tag?”

  Still, that’s what comes out of his mouth. The Strigoi start nodding and jeering, moving towards us. As they close in, Faruk turns to me. Tapping me lightly on the shoulder he says, “Tag, you’re it.”

  Then he steps to the side as the vampires pile on me.

  It’s not something I’ve ever thought about before, but the weight of fifty grown men, living or otherwise, is quite considerable. When those fifty men are vampires climbing over each other in their attempts to bite and scratch at you, it’s also uncomfortable, and prone to make a slayer irrational. I relax into the changes in my body as my mother’s blood reacts to their proximity, limbering up under the load.

  After about the third bite, I’ve had enough, and start fighting back. I throw my arms apart and dislodge a few, then kick out, losing a few more. One poor sucker chomps down on my shoulder, and I grab him by the hair and launch him across the room. I’m quite impressed by how far he flies, turning head over heels and crashing into the wall with a wallop, his face pressed into the concrete three feet from the floor, and his feet pointing in opposite directions in the wall above. He looks so comical, I half expect him to peel off the wall like a cartoon character, but he just slides down it and collapses in a heap. He is starting to stir within seconds.