Close Quarter

by Anna Zabo

  It didn’t.

  Anaxandros growled a single word Rhys was sure was a curse. Dark liquid oozed from the stump of the vampire’s arm as the vampire straightened and eyed Rhys.

  “You will lose this dance, Quarter.” The black blade swam in Rhys’s vision, the edge wavering and twisting as if it were alive. His own sword lay a good fifteen feet away.

  No way out of this.

  There had to be a way out.

  “Yeah.” Rhys took a deep breath and angled himself between Silas and that blade. “Probably. But you never know.”

  For an instant, Rhys saw a flash of doubt in the vampire’s face, but then the black sword moved. And so did Rhys—right into Anaxandros, as close as a lover. Given their height differences, it was easy enough to duck under and grasp the vampire’s good arm. Rhys pushed up.

  “Silas!”

  There was no way for the vampire to claw him off, not with a stump, and no way for the thing to strike him with the blade. Maybe he’d give Silas just enough time to get the other sword.

  As Anaxandros snarled and fought against him, an odd sense of euphoria filled Rhys. They were going to survive!

  Teeth sank into his neck. Spears of flame tore through his body, ripping apart his bones, shredding his lungs. All hope, all love, all the things that made living worth the time and effort flowed out of him. It was all Rhys could do to grasp on to the moments of his life as they slipped by. One by one, they slipped away, only to be replaced by acid and fire. Above them, the palm trees shook and groaned.

  Silas yelled, his words unintelligible but full of malice and wrath. Only when Rhys fell hard onto Anaxandros’s shoes did the burning in his body stop.

  “Do you wish to see him dead, Quintus?” The point of the vampire’s sword clicked against the stone mere inches from Rhys’s eyes.

  He wouldn’t have moved had he been able to. As with Radmila and Jarek, he was paralyzed, blood screaming in his veins, but he was also far too aware. Moisture blurred his vision.

  So much for winning.

  “Do you understand yet, Quintus?” The question was almost gentle. “You’ll never be strong enough to protect him.”

  Silas gave no answer. Nor was he anywhere in Rhys’s view. All Rhys saw was a slice of black metal that twisted and danced before him.

  The blade was alive.

  It screamed in the same way Rhys wanted to, reached out toward life even as it killed all it touched. Fear crept into Rhys and mixed with the sparks of icy fire that burned through his organs.

  “They’ll take him from you. Pull you two apart. Try to force another to him.” Anaxandros spoke in that same almost reasonable tone. One that seemed true. Caring.

  Don’t listen to him. But Rhys couldn’t speak. Couldn’t help Silas see through the lies the vampire spoke.

  The black blade whispered with the voice of a woman, with the voice of summer trapped in ice. “He’s not lying.”

  Oh God. In that moment, Rhys understood.

  Silas didn’t understand why Anaxandros hadn’t attacked him again. Rhys lay at the soulless’s feet—alive, thank all the gods for that, but unmoving. He had Rhys’s sword, but Anaxandros surely saw the tremble in his stance. There was no way Silas could withstand another series of blows like the ones that had shattered his sword. He could barely stand. His vision wavered, his blood still too thin to support him.

  Every nerved tingled. He was on the verge of fainting.

  Yet all the soulless wielded were words. It gave him a moment of rest he desperately needed, so he’d play this game.

  “What do you know of fae?” Silas said. “Of Quarters?”

  There was that smile again, the curl of contempt, those razor teeth coated with Rhys’s blood. “Far more than you, Quintus.”

  Silas slid forward a step. Anaxandros tilted his head and fingered the hilt of the daemon sword he balanced on a spot just in front of Rhys’s nose. He twirled the blade on that point.

  Silas froze.

  “I once underestimated your intelligence,” Anaxandros said. “Don’t disappoint me by playing the fool now.”

  “I have no desire to please you,” Silas said while his mind spun around the soulless’s words. He was missing something. Diana help him, there was meaning in the vampire’s talk.

  He didn’t understand. He felt all the more helpless as he looked down at the crumpled form at Anaxandros’s feet.

  He’d give anything to save Rhys.

  “Anything, Quintus?”

  He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud. Part of him was sure he hadn’t, and he didn’t want to contemplate what that meant.

  “Anything?” the soulless repeated. “Your life?”

  This wasn’t the game he intended to play, but he found he couldn’t keep silent. “Yes.” His voice was a whisper.

  “Your soul?”

  For a moment, breath failed to fill his lungs. Then he managed a mouthful. “Fae can’t…” Or so he’d been told. Humans could relinquish their souls. Messengers could fall. But the fae were fae, always.

  Anaxandros stood tall, inhuman, and looked like the most glorious day of summer. Silas had never thought—never seen that possibility before. He took a step back and wielded words like a shield. “Fae can’t give their souls.”

  The soulless chuckled. Then it spoke in a tongue none of its kind should know, a tongue older than humans. “Is that what they told you?”

  He hadn’t heard the fae language in so long. It was for the court, for family, and he had none of those things.

  Horrible, horrible understanding blossomed like a bloodstain on cloth. The death of his court, those long years of torment and pain. Why the Messengers had chosen him. They had to have known, because they always knew.

  Fae. Anaxandros had been fae.

  It took all his strength not to drop the sword in his hand. Rhys’s sword.

  Rhys.

  As if the soulless—this fae soulless—could read his thoughts, it lifted the point of its sword and stepped over Rhys. “The Messengers are fond of choices, aren’t they?”

  Silas backed into the wall of the planting beds behind him. He hadn’t meant to move at all. An instant later, Anaxandros pushed the sword away with the stump of his arm and laid the daemon blade on Silas’s shoulder. The edge kissed the side of his neck.

  “I’ll give you a choice.” Anaxandros spoke in fae, in the tones a brother might use. “Give your soul to me, and I’ll spare his life.”

  The daemon blade burned against his neck as Anaxandros kissed his cheek. “Or keep your soul and see him dead, and I’ll keep you alive to remember him for the rest of eternity.”

  Those are not choices!

  “There are no other options, Quintus.”

  Become soulless so Rhys could live. Or let Rhys die.

  “You can keep him safe. Forever.”

  Silas couldn’t push any words from his lips.

  Anaxandros lifted the sword from Silas’s neck. “Choose.”

  The moment hung like the last leaf of November. But in the end, he couldn’t let Rhys die. “I—”

  “No.” Rhys’s guttural voice boomed through the garden. Branches shook above, sending showers of debris down on them. From the edge of Silas’s vision, Rhys leaped at Anaxandros, his bloody hand holding something jagged and silver. He jammed the sword shard deep into Anaxandros’s neck as the soulless turned to block.

  Anaxandros mouthed a voiceless scream. Then it clubbed Rhys with the stump of its arm. The blow caught Rhys hard in the head, sending him flying down against the stone path. He hit, rolled, and then lay still.

  Rhys!

  Smoke poured from Anaxandros’s mouth. Silas pushed the soulless away. When Anaxandros swung his black blade at him, he parried, his muscles trembling against the force of the blow. The blades screamed.

  Any other soulless would be in flames, but Anaxandros’s eyes were clear, his blacking mouth twisted in anger. He parried Silas’s every stroke.

  Silas had no
strength left, only enough to slip through the tiny opening in Anaxandros’s defense. He plunged forward just as Anaxandros stepped out of the way.

  No! Silas threw himself sideways in an attempt to avoid the next stroke. He crashed to the ground. Anaxandros, his neck now black, followed after him. Silas rolled away but not fast enough.

  Anaxandros plunged the daemon blade through Silas’s shoulder and into the stone paver. Death flowed into Silas, corroding his blood, eating his flesh and bone. Every good thing inside him withered. Darkness stabbed deep, cut through his heart and pierced his lungs.

  Silas screamed and thrashed against the blade, but it didn’t move, just cut all the deeper. Grasping the blade only sliced and corrupted his hands.

  Over him, Anaxandros loomed. Words ripped through Silas’s mind. “I had you at the end. You were mine.” Then the soulless’s head toppled from its body and bounced off Silas’s chest.

  The trunk fell forward and burst into flames. Ash and fire rained down on Silas. Flames seared his flesh. Hot air burned his throat. The sword remained and sucked his soul like marrow from bone, cracking and splintering what was left of his life.

  His vision blurred. Smoke, blood. Rhys above him.

  Rhys. Rhys was alive.

  Too many words, not enough languages. He couldn’t even move his lips.

  I’m sorry. There was so much I wanted to show you.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rhys scrambled over to Silas and grabbed the hilt of Anaxandros’s sword with his left hand. Hundreds of knives flayed his skin from his muscles, then muscles from bone. He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip, and yanked the blade out. He tossed the thing as far from Silas as he could.

  His hand turned bluish gray. The other was in ribbons.

  Vampires might not have souls, but he knew the blade did. It was like him, that soul. Rhys sought for a pulse at Silas’s neck, but his fingers had gone numb. He laid his head on Silas’s chest.

  The only sound, only beating, came from Rhys’s own thrumming heart.

  No.

  Rhys balled Silas’s shirt in his hands. Gray and black lines ran up the side of Silas’s neck. They spread as Rhys watched, creeping across Silas’s cheek.

  No!

  Life swam around him, his element, Silas’s element. Rhys took all that he could and slammed it into Silas. In his mind, he ripped out the damage the blade had done, built new, healthy flesh, and pushed at the blood that grew stale in Silas’s veins.

  Move, damn you!

  Silas’s heart did, slowly at first, then faster. A thump, then another, and another. More. A steady rhythm.

  Good. Rhys pulled back slowly, but as he did, Silas’s heart faltered and slowed.

  Oh fuck.

  He laid his head on Silas’s chest once more and listened to a heart that only beat because Rhys forced it to beat. After a while, he lessened the flow of element and let Silas’s heart slow and stop. He closed Silas’s empty eyes.

  There was nothing else he could do. Rhys sat up and swallowed the lump in his throat and rubbed his neck. No blood. No wound. He didn’t have to glance down at his chest to know he’d healed those injuries too. All except the ever-growing crack wrenching his soul apart.

  Fan-fucking-tastic. Rhys lurched to his feet. He could heal himself, even fix Silas’s body, but that meant nothing. Nothing at all.

  Because Silas was dead. Rhys screamed and kicked at the nearest ash pile. He hadn’t even had the satisfaction of watching Anaxandros burn. All that was left was a dead Silas, piles of ash, and a living sword.

  Three long strides took him to the blade. He picked it up and felt the flesh of his hand wither. A strong pull of element fixed that.

  So he could wield this thing. And there were plenty of other ways to seek his revenge, a way to right the injustice that had happened here.

  He pulled more element. Nearby, ivy withered and died.

  Good. The last thing he wanted was life. The blade whispered a thought to him. Angels.

  Yes. They’d sent Silas here. He’d start with the angels.

  “Rhys Alexander Perun Matherton.” His name thundered through the garden like the clear tone of a giant bell. A man of average height with short brown hair stood in the center of the garden path. “Put the sword down.”

  He eyed the stranger. No accent. Clean and oddly elegant features. He wore jeans and a white button-down, shirttails out. Red high-top sneakers. Rhys stared at the shoes for a moment. Then he eyed the man again.

  “Strike him down.”

  Rhys took a step forward.

  “Put the sword down.” Same booming voice, though the man didn’t shout.

  “Make me.”

  The stranger smiled beatifically, but what appeared around him was as monstrous as it was beautiful. Wings tipped with gold and scarlet and swords of light encompassed the height of the garden and beyond. Lidless and large eyes—countless numbers of them scattered throughout the wings—all turned to look at him.

  “Rhys,” the angel said. “Put down the sword.”

  He did, and stumbled backward and to his knees under the angel’s many-eyed gaze.

  Minutes passed. Or maybe millennia. It was hard to tell because Rhys watched as galaxies were born, lived, and died in those eyes.

  Beauty. Death. If he could have crawled under a rock and hidden, he would have.

  “My name is Nathaniel.” The man walked forward, and the image of the angel’s true form vanished. “You need not fear me, Rhys.”

  “But you… I…” He had thought to slay angels. The truth pinned him to the ground. Stole his breath and left nothing behind but shame.

  “A thought is not an action.” He touched Rhys on the head, as if in benediction, and the weight of his guilt cracked and frayed. “You were not entirely in control of yourself, and were also half-mad with grief. You are forgiven. We are not capricious beings, Rhys.”

  Good thing. Because he really ought to be dead right now. But breath came once more.

  Another smile graced Nathaniel’s lips, and movement returned to Rhys.

  The angel walked to the black sword. “Do you know what this is?”

  “A trapped soul.”

  Nathaniel picked up the blade. “Most blades like this contain the soul of one of the Fallen. They’re meant to destroy my kind.”

  The guilt Rhys expected with those words didn’t come. “But not this one.”

  “No.” He pushed it into—not the Aether, for the glimpse Rhys saw was as blinding a light as the Aether was dark.

  “She was—” Rhys choked on the words, cleared his throat, and tried again. “She was Anaxandros’s Quarter.”

  Nathaniel nodded, his expression grim. Or sad. “He chose a path that cut them both off from the living.”

  “What will happen to her?” The whisper of the sword had been as dark as Anaxandros.

  “She is free, and her soul can rest.” The angel seemed to read his thoughts. “Her recompense has been paid out over many millennia, Rhys. As I said before, we are not capricious.”

  “Silas is dead,” he blurted out. “He did what you asked, but he’s dead.”

  “No.”

  Rhys finally found the strength to stand, but that single word sank him to his knees again. “He’s alive?”

  “No.” Nathaniel held up a hand. “He walks between the two even now, pondering which choice, which path to take.”

  “What will he choose?”

  A brief look of consternation passed over Nathaniel’s face. He gazed at Silas for a moment before speaking. “I do not know.” There was wonder in his voice.

  The angel didn’t know. Rhys chewed on the inside of his mouth. Silas hung between two choices.

  Shit.

  Rhys scrambled over to Silas’s side. “Silas,” he said. He gripped his shirt and gave the body a shake. “You said you’d do everything you could to stay with me. Well, I’m still here, so you damn well better come back!”

  Oh God, he hoped Silas coul
d hear him. Bright red sneakers came into view next to him. Rhys felt Nathaniel’s hand touch his head once again, this time in encouragement.

  “He will hear you.”

  Rhys shook the limp body and called again. “Silas!”

  Silas stood on a hillside in Campania. He hadn’t been here in hundreds of years, and yet he knew exactly where he was, knew the touch of the earth, the pull of the grass and shrubs. He could name the trees. Just down that path and over that knoll, past the sentry stone pine lay home. His home.

  Only they were all dead, and this…this… Silas took a better look around.

  This was very odd. The sky was blue and clear—too clear. No contrails.

  He closed his eyes and listened. No sounds of cars. No hum of anything electrical. The air smelled of wood smoke—not diesel or petroleum.

  A strange tingle ran down Silas when he looked around again. This was Campania exactly as he remembered from his youth. A land that didn’t exist anymore.

  He still wore slacks and a button-down shirt.

  Very, very strange. Something sounded on the wind, and he turned toward it, but the noise was indistinct and muffled. Silas paused, shook his head, and headed down the path that would take him home. He cleared the knoll, smelled the sweet scent of pine, and stopped.

  Pine. There was something familiar about the scent, like the tickle of a memory. Something was missing, though. What was he forgetting?

  He brushed his hand against the bark. He’d first kissed Isatis here, all those years ago. Yes, that must be it.

  Still, that didn’t seem quite right. Silas traced the lines in the bark. Why was he here?

  A dream. It must be a dream. He let out a breath and continued down into the valley. There was a break in the hills just past that stream that led to the court. The scent of bread and honey wafted to him, and he quickened his pace. Baking bread. Smoke. They were here.

  He’d never dreamed them here before. Never. The court was always empty and cold.

  He ran. All he had to do was cross the water—

  Water?

  Silas stopped and stared at the thin stream that trickled across his path.