Warming up, I inflict enough damage to encourage them to give me a little space to move, and then we really start to play. They lunge in twos and threes at first, and I block them easily; their movements are slow and clumsy compared to my own quick reflexes. Some of them try attacking from behind while their comrades distract from the front, but I can sense them even when I can’t see them, and kick out backwards, sending them flying without even turning round.
I know I’m showing off, but this is just too easy. These are not the highly-trained soldiers I met in the lab, these are more like raw recruits. Of course, I’m not trying to hurt them, and I don’t think they’re really trying to kill me, at least most of them aren’t. It’s just a bit of training. Still, I can’t help thinking they should be putting more of an effort in, as I propel another one into the wall, this time twisting his head, so that he’s spinning horizontally as he flies.
Before long their numbers start to dwindle. Instead of fifty or so coming at me, they are down to thirty, then about twenty. The rest are sitting around, shouting encouragement and suggestions to those who are still standing.
When they are down to about a dozen, two new ones join the fray, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. These are not Strigoi, they are Moroi. The remaining Strigoi stand back and watch, eager to see a more evenly matched fight, and to regain their breath.
The first to attack is tall, over six feet, but he is thin and unconditioned. He could be fast, with training, but he’s not as nimble as me, and his technique needs work. He’s a slasher, swinging wildly at my face and body. I keep out of his way for a while, dodging his swipes, then move in quickly, blocking his latest move with my arm and grabbing him round the neck. I dig my claws in behind his adam’s apple and drive my other hand in through the side of his ribcage up to my knuckles.
He chokes and gurgles, his eyes wide. I retract my claws and pull my hand back out of his side, releasing him gently and stepping back, to signify the bout is over. He staggers away and sits with the other vampires, as the second one moves in.
This one is shorter, and stockier, but nowhere near as muscular as Sam or Vinnie. He’s also surprisingly light on his feet, and quick. This one fights more like a boxer, dancing around and jabbing with straight-fingered lunges, using his longer reach against me.
After a few wild strikes, he catches the side of my upper arm, ripping the skin. The vampires cheer as though he has landed a winning blow, but it’s little more than a scratch.
His next strike is a lunge at my shoulder, and his extended talons puncture my skin, leaving four neat holes just below my collar bone. It stings, and the Strigoi cheer again, convinced of their champion’s superiority. I turn from the next lunge, and his nails scratch across my chest, leaving only livid red trails that don’t break the skin. He follows up with a swift swipe across my face, the central two talons drawing blood from my temples and down to my cheekbone.
I’ve had enough. This could go on all night and he would never land more than a glancing blow. Waiting for the next thrust, I duck under it and knee him in the groin, jabbing my claws up through the softer skin under his chin, with my other hand piercing the skin under his ribcage.
Again, I stop short of doing any real damage, lifting him off the floor with an effort, and throwing him down.
“If you’re going to fight the rasa,” I use their own derogative, raising my voice to project to the whole room, “don’t waste your time trying to wear them down with ineffective attacks. Every move should be a killing one or you’re just wasting energy. When you think you’re wearing them down, all you’re really doing is exposing your weakness, giving them time to think, and to plan how they’re going to kill you.”
“That sounds like good advice, Fräulein.”
THE STRIGOI AND the two young Moroi turn to the other end of the room, where the voice came from.
Another Moroi, older, more muscular and seasoned, stands with his arms crossed. He is blond, with broad shoulders and a sneering thin-lipped mouth. It doesn’t take much to work out this one must be of Alaric’s clan. As he saunters towards me, two more, that could be clones, appear behind him. I guess these are the three sons then. Man, they move fast.
The rest of the vampires seem to melt into the walls, and suddenly I am alone in the vast room, with three hulking and malicious brutes.
The one in the middle attacks first, leaping across half the room in one bound, lunging for my neck with his talons. I duck out of his way and straight into the flying knee of one of the others. My nose cracks, and I see a purple bloom, as I roll over the knee and avoid having my spinal cord severed by a plunging assault from the third.
I sweep the legs out from under two of them as they advance again, and, deciding I need to separate them a little, I somersault the length of the room with the remaining one charging after me.
I slow my last flip enough to catch my pursuer a hefty kick under the chin, which sends him flying back down the room into the other two.
They advance more slowly this time, one down the middle, the other two moving out to flank me. The middle one starts swiping and jabbing, and I block his moves with my arms. As the others move in from the sides, I jump in a split kick, knocking them back a few paces. The one on the left comes back in fast, and I kick out again, sending him sprawling into the side wall. He slumps to the floor as the other one comes in and I punch the one in the middle as I jump kick him under the chin. His feet spin over his head and he connects head first with the wall, his skull bouncing off it. Then he slides to the floor.
For a moment that leaves the one in the middle to go one-on-one, but that doesn’t deter him. He grabs me round the neck, and starts to pull to the side. I have a flash memory of Alaric trying to pull my head off, and the recent wound is still tender. I run up the wall in front of me and kick off, breaking free from his grasp, and flying back into the middle of the room in a high arc.
He kicks off after me, on a lower trajectory, and as I come down to land, he tackles me around the waist. We fall and roll, and before I can get free, he has me pinned under him, his knees either side of my head, crushing my skull.
That puts his centre of balance too far forward though, and leaves my arms free. I push up on his buttocks, forcing him off me and sending him face down to the floor, as I slide out from under him, coming to a stop at Faruk’s feet.
I roll onto my front and spring up into a crouch, one foot beneath me, the other out to the side, my claws resting on the floor. It feels good to finally be doing something, and fighting these three is like sparring with slayers. I’m not convinced they are just sparring. Like Faruk said, they may be more worried about impressing their father than abiding by the rules.
In the resulting lull, the three regroup, one rubbing his head, another stroking his chin, and the third massaging the back of his neck. The throbbing in my nose reminds me that it is broken, and I push it back into place with my thumb. It hurts, but it’s a good pain, followed by a feeling of relief.
I’M JUST TURNING my attention back to the task in hand when Faruk steps around me, putting himself between me and my attackers. I stand behind him, my head on one side, waiting for him to get out of the way so we can carry on.
“This is not your fight, Elizondo.”
Faruk and the middle one stare each other down.
“Nor is it yours, Ebner.”
Since Faruk shows no sign of moving, I lean out from the waist, peering around him. It doesn’t look like the Ebner boys are about to back down, either.
“Stand aside, Faruk.”
Something tells me there’s no love lost here. Faruk squares his shoulders and moves one foot back into a fighting stance.
“Can’t do that, Jaegar. I promised my … father, I would keep her out of trouble. Besides, I like her, she’s plucky.”
Jaegar throws his arms out in an exaggerated shrug. “Your funeral.”
Then the three of them are on the offensive again. They’re trying to get
past Faruk to me, and I’m trying to get past him to them, but somehow he seems to put himself in the way of every kick and blow.
He grabs me by the arm, swinging me around, and I’m kicking out, running in a horizontal circle, using their faces as stepping-stones. Abruptly, he lets go, and I fly into the two younger Moroi.
“You two,” Faruk points at the youngsters as the three Ebner gather themselves, shaking their heads, “watch her.”
I’m indignant and want to get back into the fray, but they are restraining my arms, and blocking me with their legs. They may not be great fighters, but their combined strength is enough of a nuisance to keep me in place for a few seconds.
And those few seconds are all it takes to realise that Faruk doesn’t need my help. With me out of the way, he’s no longer just defending, he’s on the offensive.
He blocks Jaegar’s thrust and twists his arm behind his back with enough force to dislocate it at the shoulder. He shoves him away, and in the time it takes Jaegar to run up against the wall and force the ball back into the socket, Faruk has twisted the neck of one of the others, breaking it. It won’t kill the Moroi, but it has put him out of the game for now.
As Jaegar turns to continue the fight, Faruk has the third in front of him, talons digging in behind the throat, ready to rip it out, and his other hand poised to dig up under the ribs for the heart.
“Think, Jaegar. Does your father want to see the back of her enough to lose a son?”
The one with the broken neck moans and tries to lift himself up on his hands, but collapses back to the floor. Otherwise the room is silent.
I’m not sure that Jaegar is going to give in, even to save his younger brother, but he’s saved from having to make the decision by a high, clear, and authoritative voice echoing round the room. It belongs to a fusty-looking old crow at the entrance. She has grey hair piled on top of her head, and wears a dress pinched at the waist that I swear has a bustle at the back. It’s made of navy blue and forest-green brocade, and looks like it’s about to crumble into dust if she moves too fast. Not that there’s much danger of that.
“Jaegar, Faruk, boys, come. Bring that with you.”
From the disdain on her face, I guess she means me. Faruk throws the younger Ebner away from him, and gestures for me to go with them.
The Strigoi and the other Moroi file out, leaving Faruk and I to follow. As I walk past him, I have a single word for him.
“Plucky?”
He raises his shoulders and puts his head to the side slightly, one hand twisting out to the side. Then his mouth kinks to one side, he winks and turns away, stalking off so that I have to hurry to keep up again, his shoulders bobbing up and down.
Princess Lilleth
I SKIP A FEW steps to catch up to Faruk.
“Who is she?”
Faruk’s face turns solemn, all traces of amusement gone. “Princess Lilleth. The Granddame of the Moroi Romanesti. The daughter of the founder of The Coven, and my father’s great aunt. Her brothers were the original elders of the clans, before they ascended, and passed on their powers.”
“How old is she? Two thousand, three thousand, more? Why didn’t she ascend?”
I have more questions, but Faruk turns to me and the look in his eye silences them in my mouth.
“She is a dowager princes, Maxine. She was a granddaughter of the last vampire king, one of the last surviving members of the family who was alive before the fall. It doesn’t matter why she never ascended, or how old she is, what matters is she remained behind,;to keep us all in check, I suppose. I cannot stress this strongly enough. Do not, repeat, not, piss her off.”
I hold my hands up in surrender and mouth, “Okay,” although, from the way she referred to me as “that,” I seem to have already managed to piss her off just by existing.
I follow Faruk and the three Ebner boys, as the Dowager Princess leads us all back across the courtyard and to the boardroom.
“So is this good, do you think?” I murmur, “Is she going to intervene? Will that mean Alaric and his lot will have to lay off?”
“How should I know?” Faruk whispers back, leaning back over his shoulder. “But if she’s come to get us herself, chances are she’s going to make an announcement one way or the other, and it’s going to involve you. Just keep your mouth shut and leave the talking to, well, anyone else.”
“Hah!”
The Princess and the three brothers look over their shoulders as we enter the central building, their faces hostile, and I lower my voice again. “What do you think I’m going to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know, insult the one person who can save you, alienate every member of the coven, commit some unheard-of crime against the vampire nation, you know, the usual.”
“What crime have I committed against the vampire nation?”
I’m worried I might be about to face some kind of trial no-one has bothered to tell me about.
“So far? Well, you’ve been slaying vampires for how long? Don’t think you’ve actually killed any since you got here, but you’ve certainly damaged a few. Then there’s your subversion, you know, switching off tamper alarms and spying on the eldar in council. Still, nothing they can make stick, I shouldn’t imagine.”
I want to ask him why, if he knew about my spirit wandering, he didn’t stop me like the first time, but we’re waiting for the lift now with the others, and there’s no time. I would try and continue the conversation telepathically, but it’s just my luck to be stuck with the one vampire whose mind is closed to me.
I look at the spider-silk grey hair piled so high on top of the dowager’s head it’s a wonder she can hold her neck straight. I try to remember everything I’ve heard about her, but that’s not much.
Falk told Howard she was distraught but wouldn’t intervene on behalf of a Strigoi when we first arrived, so I guess Faruk’s right; whatever she is about to do is about me and not Howard. And Howard said if Quidel could prevail on her, even the other elders wouldn’t be able to harm me, but what if she rules the other way? If she can override Falk to save me, then surely she can condemn me to death if she chooses as well?
As we file into the lift, I try to catch a glimpse of her face to give me some clue, but she turns at just the right speed to prevent me meeting her gaze, shuffling round in the heavy dress like a wooden doll.
As the cage trundles upwards painfully slowly, I can’t help but wonder just how old she must be to be walking round in that dress. If my hazy recollection of period costume serves me right, the unornamented shelf at the back would suggest the dress might have been new sometime in the high Victorian era.
Faruk said she’s Quidel’s great aunt. That gives me a moment’s hope before I remember they all call each other “cousin” and the original elders were all brothers. That probably means she’s related to Falk and Alaric too. By the time the lift finally grinds to a halt and the door opens, I’ve just about decided if this doesn’t go well, it’s time to make a break for it and to hell with the consequences.
FALK WAITS WITH Howard and Tilda on his left, a female and two younger male Moroi on his right at the far end of the room. All but the woman turn and watch us as we enter the room. She stares out of the window, her chin lifted towards the moon, as if the proceedings were beneath her. Quidel stands in the middle of the room, and Faruk joins him. The three Ebner boys join Alaric.
I cross the room to Howard, my face screwed up in confusion, but he holds his hands out to me and shakes his head, signalling me to keep my silence.
The Dowager Princess stands in the middle of the room and looks around, her pursed lips and deep scowl the most eloquent picture of displeasure.
“I had hoped,” she begins, her voice a thin, papery croak, “that you boys would be able, in the face of almost certain destruction from the outside, to contain your petty squabbles and rise above your differences, for the sake of the sanctuary.”
“Ma’am...”
She silences Alaric with a single finge
r raised in his direction, her attention fixed elsewhere.
“Quidel, you meddle.”
She looks down her nose at him, an ancient schoolmarm scolding a mischievous child.
“You brought the spawn here knowing the consequences. You wilfully plunged us all into chaos, and you continue to expose the sanctuary. Your absence weakened your connection, at a time when we can least afford for you to be distracted.”
Quidel bows his head in deference, but he shows no sign of being cowed. Faruk is biting the side of his mouth, trying to look contrite and failing. I turn my head away, biting my own lip, fighting the rising hilarity, caused as much by nerves as amusement.
“It is time for you to concentrate on your own duties,” she continues, “and to leave the affairs of the other clans to their own leaders.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Quidel meets her eye with a small smile.
She looks at Faruk, and her face softens a little around the eyes, but her tone has lost none of its hostility when she adds, “And remind your son of his position. I expect more of him, with you so close to ascension.”
Faruk dips his head, but as the dowager turns away from us, he winks at me.
“And you,” she turns to Alaric, real anger flaring in her eyes now, and it quells my urge to laugh. “You test the bounds of decency at every turn.”
Alaric looks as though he is about to protest; his mouth moves, but no words come out. He glowers at the Dowager, and she steps in close to him, her eyes boring into his until he looks away. When he looks back, she continues, her voice low and menacing, despite its wavering tone.
“You should remember your place. Your claim here is tenuous at best. Need I remind you that you are the son of a younger daughter, and that your own father was Sange Moroi, and not eldar? The eldar in you is weak, the line broken. Had my brother’s line not faltered, and your own coven fallen, you would not be among us now. You and your sons would have no sanctuary. Remind them of that bitter truth, and keep them in line, Ebner. I will tolerate no further impositions, is that clear?”
Breed: Slayer Page 17
