Breed: Slayer

by Sandra Seymour

  Alaric and his three sons bow their heads, the boys doing their best to become invisible, and Alaric mumbles something, which evidently satisfies her wrath.

  “All three of your sons have been put to the test?”

  Alaric nods. She continues to stare at him, evidently waiting from something.

  “Only Jearod, ma’am.”

  Her eyes narrow as she looks at the youngest of the sons, the one Faruk threatened earlier. Only Jearod what? I want to ask what she’s talking about. What line was broken? What is this test, and why did only one of Alaric’s sons pass it? I find myself cursing Faruk’s strange dampening ability again, frustrated at not being able to keep up with the conversation.

  She turns stiffly from them and walks the length of the room. It seems to take her an age, but eventually, she stops before Falk.

  “There is good reason, Falk, why the elders of a coven never take a pet or a human wife. You had a wife, and heirs, what need had you of this changeling?”

  Tilda’s face takes on a slight flush, proving that vampires can blush, given the right stimulus, even if they don’t sweat. The female Moroi, who must be Falk’s wife, continues to stare out of the window, her face showing no signs of emotion.

  “I could never have known ...”

  “You could have known, and you should have,” The princess shrieks, her anger rising again.

  I flinch back into Howard. Faruk is right; as fragile as she looks, I really do not want to piss this woman off.

  “You cannot create, Strigoi and leave them to fend for themselves. An abandoned pet will always take one of her own, and the way you vacillate between these two,” she waves a bony finger from one woman to the other, her eyes remaining fixed on Falk’s face, “it was inevitable. Your wife turns from you, you turn to your pet, she turns from him, he takes a wife, and the chain continues.”

  I want to protest that was not how it happened, but how do I know for sure? Maybe, as Libby said, it was Tilda’s coldness towards Howard that turned him from her.

  “That he chose a human wife is unfortunate, but the blame lies with you, Falk, and with no one else. It is your indiscretion that brings us to this.”

  “But I have heirs, as you said,” Falk’s voice is whining now, as he gestures towards the younger Moroi males.

  “And have they been tested?”

  “Only the oldest,” Falk shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

  “And?”

  Falk shakes his head.

  “Has the younger shown any signs?” Her eyes narrow again, as she looks at the younger of the two men standing behind Falk. Falk looks to the side and down, before looking back up at her and shaking his head.

  “Then you should have continued trying.”

  Her last comment is aimed not at Falk but at his wife. The woman’s eyes flash in anger as she looks straight at the princess, her head held high.

  “You imagine the results would have been any different?” There is challenge and resentment in her voice, and no sign of deference or fear.

  “You had a duty, Ruth,” Princess Lilleth reproaches, ignoring the younger woman’s anger.

  “I fulfilled my duty, grandmother, for nearly four hundred years.”

  “There is no time limit on that duty, child.” Her voice is cold again now, the warning in it clear, “You should not have taken vows you would be unable to keep.”

  “And you,” the younger woman ignores the threat, the colour rising in her face, “should not have farmed me out as a brood mare. If you want someone to blame for the lack of eldar in my offspring, perhaps you should start with yourself.”

  “That’s enough!” The command rings round the room, and the resulting silence stretches.

  Falk’s wife goes back to staring out of the window, but her head is no longer held so high, and her face has taken on a petulant look, her bottom lip protruding slightly, her nose pinched, her brows knit together.

  “You will put your youngest to the test as soon as possible,” she tells Falk, “and if that fails, seeing as the time is now past when you could hope for more sons, you will begin negotiations to have Quidel’s nephew Rodic betrothed to your daughter.”

  “But they are so young, there is no way of knowing ...”

  “Consider this,” The princess leans in close, “Alaric has only one eligible son. With Quidel’s oldest gone, Rodic is your last hope for an eldar heir. Unless of course you want to put your pet to the test, and her spawn? Should this halfling be the one to stand with you at your ascension? What then, Falk? You know as well as I, the human within her could not withstand the knowledge. Did the son of the dragon teach you nothing?”

  “It will not come to that,” Falk tries to reassure the old woman, but he doesn’t sound as if he believes his own words.

  I’m beginning to understand there is a difference between being an elder of the coven, and being eldar. Evidently, in order to become an elder, the vampires have to be eldar, and that’s what this test is all about. Quite what being eldar entails and why some truebloods are and some aren’t is beyond me, but what is clear is that they need three eligible heirs, one for each clan, and they’re struggling to find them. For her to consider Tilda, an undead Strigoi, as a potential heir, the princess must be getting desperate.

  Faruk said the elders ascend, and ascension was more like retirement than death, but there were physical changes involved. Could a Strigoi, who is already dead, undergo those changes? Would that mean they could not become an elder, even if they were eldar? Could a Strigoi even be eldar? But Princess Lilleth referred to a halfling standing beside him at his ascension, and she called Tilda a changeling, so she doesn’t mean Tilda, she means me. Even though Faruk said they would never allow a half-breed to become an elder. I concentrate on looking as innocuous as possible, trying hard to unthink the thought.

  “Besides,” Falk adds, his confidence returning, “there is little human in her. Look closer.”

  The Dowager’s eyes narrow, and she turns to me. The last thing I want is any attention, but I the eyes of everyone in the room are on me. My skin tingles as I feel the princess probe my body and mind. Her eyes fly back to Falk. Whatever she has seen has alarmed rather than reassured her.

  “Strigele!” She gasps, the word coming out in a hoarse whisper. “You give sanctuary to a Strigele. She will be the end of us all.”

  “This is what I have been trying to tell you all along,” Alaric steps towards the old woman. “She is an abomination. She is not just rasa, she is Strigele rasa. She cannot be allowed to ...”

  “To what?” The Dowager turns on him. “To live? To endure? This is the SANCTUARY, Alaric. This coven was founded to ensure safe haven for all vampires, not just the ones who fit a certain profile. You were quick enough to run here when you needed our protection, were you not? No,” she shakes her head, turning away from him, “We have failed to offer that safety once before.”

  She looks at Quidel, and I remember him telling me of Father Patrick’s exile. “It shamed us then, and I vowed,” she waves her finger in the air, shaking it beside her head, “that while I lived, I would never stand by and see that shame befall us again.”

  Turning back to me, she beckons me forward with a single imperious curl of her finger. Fighting the urge to hide behind Howard, I step forward.

  She stretches her arms upwards, and the sleeves of her dress fall back to her elbows, revealing translucent skin, indigo veins marbling below the surface. Despite her age, her skin remains smooth. Where Quidel looks weathered by age, she looks more as if she is about to fade away.

  It’s only when I get up close to her that I realise how tiny she is. I have to stoop to allow her to touch the sides of my head without straining. Her bony fingers are like icicles against my skin, and as they connect, my head fills with all the visions I have seen, from Father Patrick killing the reporter to protect Howard, through the dreams of violent death and the coming of the vampires, through to Dillon’s premonitions. When
she gets to them, the Dowager stops, removing one hand from my temples.

  “These are your visions?” Her head tips to one side.

  “Not those last ones, they were my mother’s.”

  The set of her lips and slanting of her eyes tells me she does not believe me, but she doesn’t press the point.

  “I want only your visions.”

  She taps her fingers to my temple again, and she sees how I gate-crashed Howard’s reception in this very room, my connection with Libby, and Alaric’s attempts to sway Falk’s judgement. I force my thoughts to jump ahead to my connection with Sam, not wanting her to see my conversations with Dillon.

  She breaks the connection, and gazes at me, tapping her forefinger against her lip.

  “Well,” Quidel asks, “is she tainted?”

  “Tainted, no,” the old woman throws a look over her shoulder at him then returns her gaze to me. “Untutored, impetuous, stubborn, and more than a little reckless, but not tainted.”

  I let her assessment of me pass without comment, considering her age. It’s only when I release my breath in a rush I realise I’ve been holding it. I feel like I’ve passed her test, whatever it was.

  She looks from Alaric, to Quidel, and then to Falk, ensuring she has their full attention before making her announcement.

  “Enough. She is protejate, there will be no more debate.”

  FALK’S WIFE IMMEDIATELY snaps her head away from the window and stalks towards the door, her two sons trailing behind her. They leave without a word or a backward glance.

  Alaric and his sons, on the other hand, have plenty to say.

  “This is preposterous,” he announces to the room in general, “with one breath the old bat proclaims the rasa cur will be the death of us all, with the next she declares her protejate. What, have we not enough enemies gathering at the gates, that we need to invite them in to destroy us?”

  “Who is she to dictate to us anyway, father?” the youngest son replies as they leave. “She is neither elder nor eldar, her words carry no weight.”

  “Yes, who cares what the younger daughter of the younger daughter of some long-dead king thinks, anyway?” One of his brothers adds as they move into the corridor outside.

  I’m worried my troubles with the Ebner clan may not be over, but Faruk rests his hand on my arm.

  “Don’t worry, they’re just blustering to save face. Princess Lilleth also carries the title Sfantul Preoteasa, the ‘Holy Priestess,’ and even they won’t go against that when it comes down to it.”

  I wish I shared his confidence, but put Alaric and his clan to the back of my mind for now, to focus on those remaining in the room. Falk doesn’t look particularly pleased, but I sense relief in him at having had the burden of making the decision removed from his shoulders.

  Tilda hugs me, and although I’m warming to her, I still feel a little awkward at the intimacy of her embrace. It feels disloyal to Libby. Howard claps his hand on the back of my neck, giving it a quick squeeze before planting a swift kiss on the top of my head.

  As Faruk and Howard step back, Quidel clasps my hands in his, nodding with a satisfied smile, “Welcome, Moroaică Tornicasa.”

  “So does this mean no more lapses in propriety?” I aim the question at Faruk, and he nods.

  “You are protejate, o untutored, impetuous stubborn one,” he laughs, the frown lines dropping from his face. “That means you are officially offered sanctuary, and anyone who violates that will have to answer not only to Princess Lilleth, but to the ascended.”

  “And that would be bad?”

  “Yes. That would be bad.”

  “Anyway,” I say, making the most of this new, relaxed Faruk, afraid he might revert to the aloof one any moment, “you forgot reckless.”

  “So I did,” he smiles, as we drift towards the door. “My untutored, impetuous, stubborn, and reckless one.”

  “And plucky,” I add. “Don’t forget plucky.”

  We laugh.

  “Quidel?” the Dowager says as we leave, “A word?”

  Quidel stays behind as the rest of us file out. Her glance at me as she leans close to whisper to him nags at the corner of my mind, but I’m too relieved to bother hanging around to attempt to spy on them, especially now I know Quidel can tell when I do.

  They’re All Insane

  I DON’T HAVE MUCH time to enjoy my new status as protejate, but I spend the time I have lounging on a pile of crates in the main courtyard, watching the coming and going of the vampires. Word of the Princess’ ruling has got around, and those who pay me any attention are, on the whole, looking at me with more curiosity than hostility.

  Throughout the night, there’s a lot of movement on and off the base. For the first time since the morning we arrived, there are almost equal numbers of humans and vampires around, working side by side. Technicians and scientists in white coats load trucks and vans with all kinds of paraphernalia, and the trucks leave, driven by humans.

  As I watch them trundle through the open gates, I wonder where they are destined. Are they heading for some all-human military base, or an academic institution? Or perhaps they are on a mission to try and get the research and equipment to the Italian coven, so the work may continue even if we are all wiped out tomorrow. Will the approaching forces allow them to pass unmolested, or will those same trucks lay wasted at the roadside by morning? I feel no urge to leave with them. For the time being, my place is here. I accept that with a sense of foreboding finality.

  Around three in the morning, a small group of humans start erecting a small platform. I watch them idly as they work, enjoying the icy wind on my face.

  The last of the outgoing trucks leaves. As it nears sunrise, the tide changes. Armoured vehicles full of black-clad vampires or human soldiers start entering the gates and spewing out dozens at a time. Some head off into the surrounding buildings, but others wait around, standing in groups, or lounging like me.

  As the courtyard fills up, Howard and Tilda join me, though they don’t have much to say. We continue watching the troops, until Faruk appears and beckons me over to him.

  Falk, Alaric, and Quidel have made their way onto the platform. Alaric steps forward and starts talking to the crowd, who stop what they’re doing to listen to him.

  “You are all aware of the enormity of the situation. I do not need to tell you that our enemies are coming, and they are coming to destroy us. We are vastly outnumbered, and we can expect no quarter.”

  He’s talking to the Moroi, of course. Strictly speaking, the slayers should be outnumbered if they are counted one for one with the Strigoi included. I’m glad he’s not making that mistake.

  Faruk and I are on the steps, off to the left. I try to get a fix on the Moroi vampires, to see how many there are, but with Faruk this close and such a large crowd, I can barely tell the vampires from the humans. The small signs are too easy to miss. I need to feel their minds to be sure.

  “Faruk?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth, not wanting to be heard, although I doubt anyone else would hear me over the droning voice of Alaric as he gives his long-winded speech to the troops. I feel awkward asking this, but I can’t concentrate with him around. “Must you stand so close to me?”

  He looks surprised, even a little hurt, and I try to explain.

  “It’s just that you have this, um, aura about you, and when you’re around I can’t er, well, do things.”

  “Ah,” he smiles his understanding, “sorry about that. It’s an automatic defence, learned in my youth, to protect me from an overly inquisitive older brother. I will try to control it.”

  As Alaric finally shuts up and steps back, Quidel steps forward. He clears his throat and projects his voice clearly to the crowd.

  “Ebner, Elizondo, Tornicasa. Brother Alaric has told us of the advancing enemy, and of the battle to come. He is right. There is no possibility of reprieve. There is hope, however, that some of us may survive this battle. As you know, I have postponed my ascension i
n order to fight beside you …”

  I tune him out and focus on the crowd, searching for the trueblood vampires among them. Whatever Faruk is doing, it’s working. I can identify them now. There are a group of five, a group of six including Jaegar and his brothers, and a group of eight, and five, no, six, seven, make that nine, individuals scattered around. So there are twenty eight, plus Faruk and the Elders makes thirty two. Thirty three, if you count me.

  It has taken me some time to identify them all, and Falk is speaking now, of the need to be steadfast and loyal.

  “These windbags should remember there are humans in the audience,” I whisper to Faruk, and he raises his eyebrows. “They could die of old age before they get to fight.”

  Faruk suppresses a smile, nudges me, and nods in Falk’s direction. He is about to introduce me as the great hope for the vampire nation. They will follow me into battle, and I will, he assures them, lead them to victory. He sounds false and hollow to my ears.

  I step forward to address a hostile crowd stunned into silence.

  “My past and my nature are no secret. I am Cursa Moroaica. I am also Strigele,” I begin without really knowing how I am going to say this.

  “You are all aware of my training with the rasa vinatorii. By birth, and by heritage I am conditioned to hunt and kill vampires; to kill you, Strigoi. Yet I am here, with you, as we prepare to enter battle together. Just as you stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our human allies, so I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Many of you are prepared to die to defend your way of life. Some of you will. However, there are those of you who believe there is another way. Those who believe that there can be peace, that we can work together to forge a brighter future, a future free of hatred and violence. It is to those of you I speak now. Leave. When the dust is settled and the bloodshed is over, we will begin anew.”

  Falk is livid, but he smiles wanly through gritted teeth as I walk past him and off the platform. Quidel’s smile is warmer, more genuine, but shows his concern. Alaric looks smug, as though he thinks I have played into his hands, but Alaric’s plans are not what concerns me right now. I leave without waiting to see what the reaction will be. I have work to do.