‘Don’t worry about Patrick,” Quidel’s voice sounds firmer, younger in my mind than when he speaks, ‘he can take care of himself.’
‘He’s here?’ The thought does nothing to calm me. Now I have another person to think about. ‘I thought he was with Libby?’
‘Libby is safe with the Maici. Patrick has his duty, just like the rest of us.’
I can’t help it, though. Quidel may be able to put his concern for his son’s safety to one side, but I can’t. I start scanning the area, trying to locate him among the humans. I wish now he had more of the vampire about him, something more than his unnatural long years to mark him out. I shift my focus from group to group, oblivious to the incoming shells now, and the sporadic explosions. I have covered around half the compound when the descending whine of a rocket coming straight at me rouses me, and I hop deftly out of its path, and take a running jump to the neighbouring building.
Faruk lands beside me, and shakes me by the arm.
“Will you concentrate?” He yells. “It’s not like I haven’t got enough to worry about without you daydreaming, you know.”
“I’m not daydreaming,” I argue, my focus already returned to where I left off. “I’m looking for Patrick.”
“Patrick can take care of himself,” Faruk echoes his father’s sentiment. “It’s not like he’s never been in battle, you know. Now stop worrying about him and get back in position.”
He gives my arm another shake and takes off back to his own station. I wait until the incoming shells move on to another building, and leap back across to my designated place. The roof now has three large holes in it, and I can see another in the wall through one of them. I move to the edge of the building, and crouch behind the three-foot wall. I still hate waiting.
Across the other side of the compound, one of the younger Moroi overestimates his resilience and ends up with his insides scattered all over a wall, proving Dillon right about one thing. Those of us who remain adjust our positions slightly to compensate for his loss, and after that, we’re more on our toes. We spend a couple of hours dodging artillery while the buildings around us are mostly reduced to rubble, but the casualties are light, and morale remains high, though the mood is grim.
Around midnight, the crack of gunfire begins, as the enemy advance in range of the Credinciosi snipers. The real assault is about to start. Two small planes approach, disgorging a series of small black objects. The planes pass overhead, pulling upward, but their flight paths become erratic. They narrowly miss each other, and one flies into the mountainside, the explosion lighting up the night. The other plunges to the ground in an uncontrolled nose dive. I gather from Quidel’s quiet chuckling in my head, he has done more damage to the approaching army than its cargo can do to us.
If they were expecting to have the element of surprise, they have made a serious miscalculation. Even without the fires from the two burning planes, we would have seen them coming, and we have been expecting them. The lack of air support, the concentration of fire from the ground; these are just an attempt to soften us up and distract us, which has failed.
As the paras of the 63rd Battalion glide silently down toward us, they do have one surprise for us, though. Each of them carries a disposable rocket launcher slung across his chest. As they come within range of the snipers, two of them slump lifeless in their harnesses, and the others, aware they have been exposed, begin preparations to fire. I watch with nothing but admiration for their skill, as they guide their chutes with one hand, simultaneously extending the tube and preparing their weapons with the other. They hoist the tubes onto their shoulders, arrange the sights, and only at the last second release the chute with their other hands to fire.
I half expect them to be propelled backwards as they discharge their 64mm anti-tank rounds, but these are recoilless, the gas plumes flaring from the rear of the tubes balancing the force of the missiles raining down. Two of them are aimed at me. I duck and roll. One flies harmlessly over the wall into the courtyard below, the other takes out a chunk of the wall where I had been crouched.
‘Everyone Okay?’ I push the thought at Quidel, and he assures me there are no further casualties.
A bullet whistles past my ear and pings off the roof behind me, bringing my attention back to the task in hand. The paras are coming in to land, the first already reaching up to remove his harness as his feet touch down. As I set off at a run towards him, I can’t help thinking, ‘Only two?’
I launch myself at his chest, the force of the impact breaking a few of his ribs, and he falls backwards, the string of his chute snapping like cotton. It flutters to the ground as we roll, and we come to rest a few feet away from it, with me sitting on his chest, my fangs and talons extended, one hand holding his throat, the other arm pulled back ready to make the killing strike under his chin.
His eyes, round in terror, his mouth open in a silent scream, stop me. This is no vampire. He’s not a monster, not even a real threat, he’s just a human soldier. I have never killed a human, and I don’t think I have the stomach for it, even now.
‘You can’t afford to make that distinction,’ it’s Faruk, still watching out for me. ‘The only thing you need to ask is, would he kill you if the situation were reversed?’
I look at the face, red and gasping for air, his eyes bulging with the pressure, and I know the answer to that one. Even as his body begins to convulse, the anger and hatred is as evident as his will to live. It doesn’t matter, though, or at least, not enough. I give a gentle squeeze on his throat, enough to make him pass out and neutralize him, as three bullets slam into my chest in a neat triangle above my heart.
The impact stings, and throws me a little off balance. I can feel the burning metal against my skin. Armour-piercing bullets. A sensible move on their part, and possibly enough to slow us down without the flak jackets. Certainly enough to give the Strigoi pause.
As I turn my head in the direction the bullets came from, to the second para, divested of his chute, knelt with his weapon shouldered and ready to fire again, I can’t help feeling sorry for him. I understand now why they underestimated us. They were expecting Strigoi on the roof, and they deployed what they thought would be a sufficient force to take them out.
As the soldier takes aim, I stand over his comrade, giving him a chance. I tip my head on one side and look at him through the corners of my eyes, then smile a slow, wicked smile. He’s trained to ignore fear, or to overcome it, no doubt, but no amount of training can have prepared him for what he is about to feel.
I concentrate on his aura, and see the vivid red and clear blue instantly. He is calm and focused, with a strong survival instinct. There are traces of muddy grey though, at the edges; his fear. I step over the fallen man, facing his partner full on, giving him the largest possible target, but his finger wavers on the trigger, as the grey seeps through to his skin, swirling in a smoky mist around him. By the time I tip my head to the other side and take my first step towards him, his mind is clouded with terror, his hands shaking. Two more steps and he drops the gun, scrambling to his feet, and diving over the wall at a run.
I can’t help feeling remorseful for him as I peer over the wall. He is writhing around on the ground in agony, with several broken bones. Still, he’s alive. I’m not sure how long he’ll stay that way with the Credinciosi snipers.
THE SERBIAN TROOPS are moving in their numbers now, and the fighting has begun in earnest. The gunfire is no longer sporadic, but a constant stream. Teams of men move from cover to cover. The snipers try to pin them down, and take a few out, but they are slowly encroaching on the buildings, pushing the Credinciosi towards the back of the compound.
Then the first of the piercing screams of terror rips through the night, breaking a lull in the gunfire. It’s quickly followed by several more, each ending in a strangled, gurgling sound. The panic that ensues is evidenced by the chaotic sounds of shots that follows, no longer controlled bursts, coordinated and orderly, but disorganised, the result
of hundreds of armed men suddenly fearing for not just their lives but their souls. The Strigoi have moved in behind the humans, cutting them off, and have begun their hunt.
With each pitiful cry the rage still rises in me; still makes me want to prevent the next killing, and exact a bloody revenge for it. The men who are being slaughtered came here to fight a human enemy, and now they are being cut down by terrible monsters. Sure, they must have heard the rumours, maybe even have seen the strange group of mercenaries among them. Until now, though, I doubt they really believed what they were walking into. They are innocents, tricked into giving their lives for a cause they are just now beginning to understand. Too late.
The impulse to run and begin my own hunt is strong, a compulsion I’m fighting hard to resist. I’m trying to remember why I’m standing on the roof of a ruined building, listening to the massacre, instead of moving to end it, and a red mist is fogging the edges of my mind.
‘Perhaps it will help to remember,’ Quidel’s thoughts startle me, bringing me back to the present, ‘that they are fighting to protect the Credinciosi, our human friends.’
“And if that doesn’t work, just remember what’s coming over those walls next,” Faruk lands beside me. “That should do the trick.”
I’m still struggling to shut out the cries of the soldiers, but Faruk’s physical presence beside me is a calming influence. I nod, to let him know I’m okay, unable to formulate the thought. He waits for a few seconds, then points to a gap in the compound wall, where the next wave of attackers are streaming through.
“Time to move,” he says, and we drop to the ground and return to the gym, which has so far remained untouched.
EVEN BEFORE FARUK and I reach the others, the timbre of the battle around us changes. There is less gunfire now, and few explosions. The noise of the human battle has been replaced by more familiar sounds: the howling and snarling of vampires and slayers engaging in their deathly dance.
“How are we doing?” Faruk raises his eyebrows at Quidel as we enter the gym.
“The defences are holding.”
“Yeah, I saw. This building’s about the only one without a scratch on it. Any losses?” Faruk takes in the numbers in the gym as he asks the question.
“Only two Moroi so far.”
“Falk?”
“The Strigoi are falling fast,” Falk says, running a hand through his hair. It’s obviously not the first time he’s done that tonight. His usually neat locks are dishevelled and falling around his face. He looks tired and drawn, his mouth beginning to slack, and his eyebrows drooping.
“Alaric?”
The German nods, “The Credinciosi have fallen back into position.”
“Then it’s time to take this outdoors,” Faruk holds out his hand. One of the Strigoi guard passes him two masks, and he hands one to me. I hang it around my neck, but don’t put it on yet, as we move out into the courtyard.
Howard, Tilda, Faruk, and I are with the three elders. We are surrounded by a twenty-strong guard of the strongest Strigoi. They are all dressed in the same black outfits, in an attempt to make distinguishing between Moroi and Strigoi more difficult for those slayers without powers to detect them. I shrug off my flack jacket, exposing the emerald green top beneath, making myself an obvious target. It stands out like a standard among the sea of black.
The other Moroi have joined us, coming down from the rooftops, and taking up their positions for the next phase of the battle. Seconds later, the Strigoi start spewing from the buildings, jumping from windows and holes in the wall, making for our group on some unheard cue.
They are followed by slayers. There are between forty and fifty of them, so they outnumber us two to one. It’s not the hundred Father Patrick warned me to expect. Dillon must have had more success in dissuading their side than he thought.
That’s about the only comforting thing about them, though. With around two hundred and thirty vampires remaining, it’s not looking good. This is the most dangerous part of the plan for the Strigoi, who have their backs turned to the enemy as they run. As two slayers take out six fleeing vampires in a matter of seconds, I don’t think any of us are going to see the sunrise.
It’s not only the most dangerous part of the plan for them, either. I have had to have my mind open to the Moroi so far, to be able to communicate with them. Now, though, I have to close off a part to them, and open it to someone else, without them noticing. I close my eyes and steady my breath, searching for the one mind I know will be out there, open to me.
‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
I start to move forward toward the slayers, who are swarming toward us now. As I move, the others follow, and the vampires go on the attack. They are falling all around us, with only the truebloods able to stand up to the slayers. Our guard of twenty is being ripped to pieces by two slayers.
The vampires are down to less than a hundred, and the slayers are still cutting through them like so much wheat in a field, when a flare goes up in the sky. At the signal, the vampires don their masks, and I follow suit. The mask is designed to filter Howard’s poisonous gas, the main weapon in the vampire’s arsenal. Howard says he thinks the gas will have no effect on the trueblood vampires, but he’s not a hundred percent sure and doesn’t want to take any chances, and it is part of Falk’s plan to make Moroi and Strigoi harder to tell apart.
The slayers begin to falter, to weaken. I pull the mask tighter to my face, in case any of the mist should get through. I don’t have time for a real head count, but I reckon we’re down to around fifty vampires and fifteen truebloods. They still have almost forty slayers.
A small group of humans appears on the walls, firing shells from bazookas. The beards would be enough to tell me who they are without the crosses emblazoned on their chests. The Calugari.
They don’t seem too concerned about who they take out. They are just firing indiscriminately down into the melee. I wonder if The Breed realise that they have been betrayed as a slayer is taken down by a series of shots to the back, and set upon by several Strigoi. Then I remember Dillon telling me their leaders would be happy to see the back of Sam and his followers, and the truth of Howard’s words about factions within factions hits home. We have all been manipulated in one way or another into this battle, with the Calugari there to ensure none of us survives.
Some of the Credinciosi must have remained in position, because occasionally one of the bearded monks falls, but it’s only seconds before another one picks up the weapon, and continues the assault.
Both sides are weakening now. The few remaining vampires are exhausted. The slayers are beginning to feel the effects of the gas as it saps their strength. Some of them are choking, and they are finally beginning to fall. The two who have disposed of the guard are engaged in combat with Jaegar and one of his brothers, who have stepped into the gap.
I see Dillon, and feel a rush of relief. It is short lived though, when I see Sam, Nell, and Jax behind him. They are all wearing masks, and they are heading straight for us. The blond slayer who may or may not be Vinnie is right behind them.
I feel an irrational sting of anger at Dillon, and relive the sense of betrayal I felt back in the basement when I first thought he had turned against me.
‘Hey, that’s not fair,’ his voice complains in my head. ‘I couldn’t do anything about it. It was that or getting ripped to shreds as a traitor.’
I understand. Dillon has no choice, either. He is following the only path open to him, just as I am following the only path open to me. The focus of my irrational anger shifts to the humans on the wall, who I am beginning to view as the real enemy.
Sam’s troop approaches. There are other sporadic battles going on all around, although the majority on both sides have fallen now. There are few remaining besides our group, which has so far been prevented by our own side from entering the fray.
Dillon and the others are heading right for us. The younger Ebner has fallen and the slayer he was fighting
is following them, but he looks weak now. This should be interesting.
I know where the lines are drawn. I know who I should trust and protect. I also know who I’m going to protect, and the two are completely different things. I will protect Howard, Tilda, Quidel, and Faruk, and Dillon. Falk, Jax, and Nell can live if they can see sense, but Alaric and Sam are going to die here, and Vinnie, if he isn’t dead already. I look at Dillon, and I know he is with me.
‘It’s not Vinnie, Max. You may not have killed him, but that might have been kinder. I doubt his mind will ever recover. It doesn’t heal like the rest of the body, not from that kind of injury.’ The reproach in Dillon’s tone surprises me. ‘Don’t think Jax is going to give, though Nell might,’ he tells me, and I register the fact with grim acceptance. ‘What about him?’ I catch the nod in Falk’s direction.
‘Don’t hold your breath.’
THERE IS NO preamble. Sam just wades in, heading straight for me. Nell goes for Tilda; Jax for Quidel, and Dillon for Howard. The blond slayer throws himself at Alaric and the weakened one at Falk. Faruk glances from Howard to Quidel and back, seeming torn, before leaping to his father’s defence.
I dodge Sam’s first few blows, and sharpen my focus, hoping to use my skills to weaken my enemy from within. I concentrate on his mind, hoping to be able to make a connection and confuse him. After my earlier success at steering his mind, I’m thinking maybe I could cause him to fall over his own feet, or stab himself in the throat. No such luck. His mind is enveloped in a thick cloud; he is unthinking, so there is nothing for me to latch on to. I have to scramble to keep out of his way.
Dillon and Howard are trading punches, and Howard has had the wind knocked out of him. He is breathing hard, and that’s before Dillon picks him up by the throat and throws him twenty feet backwards, where he lands on the bonnet of an abandoned military vehicle.
Breed: Slayer Page 20
