by April White
Tam huffed something that wasn’t laughter, but could have been close. “You joke about being a Sucker, but from what you describe, you weren’t dead so much as … suspended.”
“That is my understanding of the rudimentary medical explanation for my condition, yes.”
“And the cure you injected …?” he left the question dangling.
“Re-started the process of cell-death in my body. In a sense, I suppose, I needed to begin to die in order to properly live.”
The silence stretched out for a long while until my green-haired Seer-mix friend spoke again. “When you think it through, it’s what we’re all doing – dying a little bit more each day as we wander through life. It kind of makes you want to look around and notice all the little things along the way.”
In that remarkably clear way young people sometimes have of viewing the world, he was absolutely right, and I’d had a very long life in which to discover the truth of his words. “It is amazing how complete a life can feel when it is full of the little things,” I said quietly. My mind had filled the darkness with memories of Saira that scrolled past my vision as though I’d captured each frame of them on film.
Tam interrupted my thoughts, and his question became one of the small things that life had taught me to catalogue as meaningful. “What does Tink’s voice sound like?”
I smiled, although he couldn’t see it. “Ava speaks softly, and yet every word sounds as though it is shot through with light. Her laughter is where you hear it best – like crystal prisms that dance with sunbeams when they clink together in the breeze. You’ll hear it yourself soon enough, and it’ll become one of the little things you store away to remember.”
He settled back into silence, maybe imagining laughter he hoped to hear, as I heard Saira’s rich, throaty voice echo her words of love in my mind.
“Or perhaps, it’s the biggest thing of all.”
Sarcophagus
I stifled an involuntary laugh as I ran across the rooftops of the Vatican. It had been fun, at least for Ringo and me. Tom had to be convinced not to look down, and Bas needed a bit of extra time to make his way out of the window, but all of us did it without incident. Bas seemed to be getting stronger as his body assimilated the blood Tom had given him, and his face was regaining some of its former beauty. He definitely still moved like an athlete, though more long distance runner than power lifter, and he took the lead to guide us across the tops of buildings in which priests slept and guards stood watch.
The ground beneath us was sloped, but the height of the buildings compensated for the elevation change so that by the time we reached the Cortile del Belvedere, we were just two stories above the earth. The only reason Tom made it at all was that it was nighttime, so he didn’t have to know how very high up we had been.
One tower on the far right side of the main complex was higher than the rest of the roofline, and I could see windows at the top. Bas led us to it, but the windows didn’t open, so we had to risk breaking a pane. Tom wrapped his arm in his coat and punched the top of the window. The broken bits fell inside onto a tile floor with a smash and we held our breath. We heard no shouts of alarm though, and after a long few minutes, he pulled the rest of the broken glass out of the frame and set the pieces down carefully on the roof tiles.
Ringo dropped down first, and when he had done it safely, the rest of us followed in his footsteps. I shielded my Maglite with my hand so I could see where we were, and when I did, I almost yelped in astonishment.
The tower held the most amazing circular staircase – well, less a staircase and more like a ramp. There were steps, but they were far enough apart that a pack animal could climb them. The staircase had an up ramp and a down ramp, which gave it a sort of double helix look. The view past the columns and down over the railing went all the way to the floor two stories below. It was like looking into the heart of a seashell.
“Wow,” I whispered in awe.
“Bramante designed it in the 1500s so the pope could ride a mule or a carriage all the way to his apartments. Those vestments can get heavy after a long day,” Bas whispered back wryly.
We followed the twisting path down a level to the entrance to the second floor, and Bas took the lead again. There were enough windows that the rooms glowed dimly in the moonlight, making flashlights unnecessary, though I had to fight the instinct to switch mine on just to see the ceiling decoration. The halls were large and filled with statues of horses. It reminded me a bit of walking past the Elgin Marbles that had been stored in the London Underground during the Blitz – sort of eerie, like silent sentinels watched every move we made.
The biggest hall had the feeling of a formal audience room, and Bas led us past Etruscan horse statues to a large stone sarcophagus at the back of it. Bas and I took one side, and Ringo and Tom the other, but even with the strength of two Vampires helping, that stone lid was almost impossible to move, much less move silently. My wrists had cramped with the strain by the time we finally moved it enough to allow my Maglite in, which I promptly dropped to stifle a scream.
“What the bloody ‘ell is that?” Ringo gasped. The light had fallen into the sarcophagus, which apparently was not just for show. It shone through the eye sockets of a skeleton that was dressed in full regal vestments and covered in glittering jewels.
“It is a Catacomb Saint. I did not realize the Vatican had kept any of them,” said Bas quietly. “A cache of remains was found under Rome in the sixteenth century. The skeletons were sent out as martyrs to the Catholic churches in countries such as Germany and Poland. They had been having trouble maintaining a Catholic presence, and the martyrs were meant to impress.”
Tom reached down to pluck a ruby and gold ring off the finger of the skeleton. “And look what we have here.” He held it up to show me. “Is this the Monger ring?”
I peered closely at the blood-red stone set into a heavy gold band, and I looked at Ringo for confirmation. He stared at the ring as though it had teeth, and then nodded. “Yeah, that’s it,” Ringo said.
“It is the same ring the pope wore when he condemned me for heresy,” Bas agreed.
“We should go,” I said with a degree of urgency that seemed to come out of nowhere. I was suddenly very antsy; anxiety crept up my spine as though the skeleton was shaking its bony finger at us and saying we were fools to think we’d get away with this.
The feeling was strong enough that I didn’t wait for agreement. I scanned the room for something to leave a spiral on, and found a wooden cabinet that looked like prime real estate. I quickly removed a marker from my pocket and started tagging the side panel of the cabinet.
A wave of Monger sickness suddenly punched me in the stomach so hard I almost vomited, and I staggered backwards from the impact.
“Give me the ring.” A voice that pierced my soul with a shiver of fear echoed in the cavernous room. I looked up to see Duncan, the Immortal War, glaring at us from across the great hall.
I swallowed a terrified shriek and hurried back to work on the spiral. My hand shook, and I missed one of my lines. I shut my eyes and concentrated on calming the trembling that had taken hold of my courage so I could finish drawing the spiral.
“Sod off,” said Tom, and I looked up in shock. Ringo and Bas looked equally surprised that Tom had just pulled an inordinate amount of either courage or stupidity out of his pocket like a red flag, which he now waved in front of a bull.
“What did you say to me, boy?” Duncan boomed.
“I’m not your boy,” Tom spat. Ringo and Bas were edging back toward me.
“Don’t, Tom,” I hissed.
“You should listen to her. I wouldn’t, but you should.” Duncan’s tone was derisive, and I couldn’t tell if he knew who I was and his insult was personal, or if he was just generally being a pig.
He strode into the hall with the swagger of a warrior, as the fear churning in my guts threatened to consume every ounce of self-control I had left. “Give me my ring,” he said menacingly.
I was nearly done with the third spiral, but my hand shook so hard I had to switch the marker to my left hand so I could shake out the right.
I looked up to see Tom defy Duncan. “No,” he said clearly.
Duncan hadn’t broken his stride, and Ringo’s voice was urgent in my ear. “Finish it!” he hissed. Tom didn’t have a weapon that I could see, but I couldn’t imagine Duncan had any less than ten on him.
He was War, after all.
Ringo raised his voice. “Tom,” he called in a low voice, “back away.”
Duncan stalked forward. His glare burned holes in Tom as though his eyes were laser beams.
“Last chance, boy,” Duncan’s sneer was palpable, and I unconsciously stood and pulled one of my daggers out of its sheath.
Tom took a halting step backwards as he finally seemed to understand the trouble he was in. I saw Bas edge toward a display of halberds crossed on the wall to our right, and I knew he and Ringo had already had a whole silent conversation between them.
Then Duncan lunged, and everything slowed down.
His sword came out of a scabbard on his back.
Bas flung himself at the halberds and wrenched two off the wall.
Tom stumbled backwards.
Duncan’s sword swung down in an arc.
I threw my dagger.
Ringo hurled himself at Tom to knock him out of the way.
The ring clattered to the floor.
Tom bellowed in pain.
My dagger sank into Duncan’s chest.
It seemed to barely affect him, except that his eyes went wide, and pure, unadulterated hatred filled me with rage.
It wasn’t my rage I felt though. I suddenly understood, with utter clarity, that it was Duncan’s hatred that coursed through me. The purest anger and deepest desire to kill rolled off him and wrapped icy talons around me until the moment he grabbed the hilt of my dagger and ripped it from his chest.
My other dagger was out and in my hand when Duncan flung the first one at Tom, but Ringo had changed Tom’s trajectory and the dagger merely nicked his arm.
Another flash of rage surged through me, but this one was red hot – so very different than the pure, cold hatred that was Duncan’s. Threaded through that burning rage was a ribbon of bright light, and an instant later, the feeling was gone.
Two things happened simultaneously then – Bas swung a halberd at Duncan, and Bishop Wilder charged into the hall like a madman. “I’ll kill you for what you’ve done to me!” Wilder shouted at Tom. He waved a sword with sweaty, wild menace, and rushed forward like a crazed man with nothing to lose.
The scene took on the surreality of a nightmare as the metal of deadly weapons clashed on one side of me, and Ringo and Tom scrambled for weapons on the other.
Wilder was older, but he had stayed fit and strong, and the way he held the sword as he raced toward Tom was like a Norse berserker. Tom lunged forward toward the sarcophagus. He plunged his hand inside and withdrew a glittering, ceremonial sword.
He sprang forward to meet Wilder’s charge, but Wilder was already swinging. His sword bit into Tom’s thigh, neatly slicing into the muscle and effectively hobbling him. Old wounds bloomed all over Tom’s body, and the most recent slice in his hand pumped fresh blood. He had to dodge away quickly to avoid a killing blow while his body attempted to heal itself.
Ringo tossed me my fallen dagger and grabbed a short sword from the sarcophagus for himself. We each held woefully undersized weapons as we backed closer together and prepared to fight.
The halberd was not the most effective weapon against a sword, but Bas had gotten a few good swings in against Duncan. War was clearly the better fighter, and he was aiming for decapitation, which was the only effective way to end a Vampire in battle.
Bas saw this as obviously as I did, so he switched tactics, surprising us all. Bas flung the halberd at Duncan, then used the instant distraction to dive for the Monger ring, which still lay on the floor. He tucked and rolled in an impressive feat of athletics, then emerged in the clear and sprinted for the far door. Duncan hadn’t anticipated this, and I could see momentary indecision on his face as he debated killing us or chasing the ring.
The ring won, which had clearly been Bas’ objective, and the odds of survival suddenly shifted slightly in our favor. Duncan roared in rage as he gave up the fight and sprinted toward the door after Bas.
The clash of metal dragged my attention back to Tom and Wilder. They were on the other side of the sarcophagus from Ringo and me. Wilder was attacking Tom with a ferocity I’d only seen once – right before Archer had killed him in France. Tom fought back hard, but he didn’t have Wilder’s obvious sword skills, and the stab wound that had re-opened in Tom’s hand was bleeding freely over the hilt of the sword, making it slippery and hard to hold.
Wilder growled at Tom under his breath, lunged again, and stuck Tom’s shoulder. Tom nearly fell, but at the last moment twisted his body so he was under Wilder. He drove his sword upward, so it pierced Wilder’s torso up to the bloody hilt. Wilder lurched backward in shock, and Tom flinched away, suddenly horrified.
I used the distraction to jump onto the sarcophagus and fly off it with my best martial arts kick aimed at Wilder’s head. My foot connected and Wilder fell backward. The sound of his skull impacting the tile floor was sickening. Tom staggered to his feet and stood over Wilder. He kicked Wilder’s sword away, then reached down and pulled the ceremonial sword out of the bishop’s stomach. Wilder’s blood on the blade seemed to mix with Tom’s from the hilt, and I knew that if Wilder didn’t die from his wound, he’d be turned.
My eyes connected with Tom’s as the time-bending, mind-blowing irony of what had just happened to Bishop Wilder smacked us both in the face. “I’m going after the ring,” I said breathlessly.
Tom looked down at Wilder, then back up at me and Ringo. “Let’s go.” He picked up the ceremonial sword with his uninjured hand, and we raced from the hall.
Battle Fatigue
The clash of metal on metal rang out in the stair tower, but when we got there, the only evidence of the battle that I could actually see in the dark was the stain of bloody handprints on three of the columns.
Then another clash, and I realized they came from two rungs of the stairs below us. Tom raced down the spiral, but Ringo and I had the same thought. I shoved my daggers back into their sheaths, and Ringo stuck the sword in the back of his belt. I aimed my Maglite at the columns one level down, and then we both climbed onto the railing and jumped across the center to the level below us.
It wasn’t a difficult jump, but if we missed, we’d be dead. There were about a million ways we could die on this night, so one more or less didn’t really seem like a big deal. Tom was just rounding the corner when we leapt down to the next level, where the clang of metal on metal was loudest.
Ringo threw me a hand sign and we split up – he went left, I went right, withdrawing my daggers as I went. I had to put away the Maglite to hold my daggers, and it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the near dark, and when they finally did, I wished they hadn’t.
Bas lay on the herringbone-patterned tile, bleeding from stab wounds all over his body. Duncan stood over him as if debating whether or not to cut his head off, but instead, he reached down and plucked the Monger ring from Bas’ unresisting fingers.
“Noooo!” I screamed, as I flung both of my daggers at Duncan. They both stuck in his flesh – one in his torso and one in a shoulder, and I was assaulted again by the purest rage imaginable. The intensity of it combined with concentrated Monger-gut rocked me back on my heels and drove the breath from my lungs. He gripped both daggers, ripped them out of his body, and flung them away to clatter somewhere in the darkness.
I tripped over Bas’ sword, which had fallen to the tile before he did, and I lunged for it blindly as Duncan laughed.
“A girl with a sword. How … amusing,” he sneered.
His fist flashed like lightening, smashed into th
e side of my face, and knocked me backward as if he held a hammer. I slumped to the ground and pain slammed through my head and body. I expected the sharp side of his sword to drop on my neck at the next moment.
“‘Ow’s this for amusin’,” growled Ringo, as his sword clashed with Duncan’s, and he parried the lightning blows Duncan rained on him.
Ringo drew Duncan away from me, and I crawled over to where Bas lay in a growing pool of blood. He looked up at me. “Don’t touch me dear girl. Your Archer wouldn’t care for me to infect you with my immortality.”
I gasped a shocked laugh through the stars in my vision. “I have to get you out of here.”
I’d lost my marker, and searched around me in the dark for something to draw with, conscious of the clanging weapons behind me, but not daring to look up. I heard Tom yell something about having my daggers as he joined the battle, and I barely kept the sobs from choking my throat and blinding me with tears. I finally pulled my Maglite out of my pocket and dipped the end in Bas’ blood that had pooled under his shoulder.
He coughed wetly, and I knew his body wasn’t healing fast enough to cope with the blood that filled his lungs. I swallowed a sob and drew faster.
The hum of the spiral had started, and I didn’t have the concentration to shut it down. I called out through the sobs. “Ringo! Tom! Come!”
“Hold on to me, Bas,” I said through tears as I dipped my torch into his blood and began the fifth spiral.
There were more clangs of swords, and then finally Duncan’s angry voice. “Enough!” Then the wet sound of a sword running through flesh, and a gasp that sent a chill to my bones.
I sobbed hard as the hum of the spiral filled me. “Please …!” I felt one hand grab my coat, and then another hand clap on weakly as the spiral drew us into it. I barely had enough focus to see a walled garden in my mind before my vision blurred and everything went black.
