Dark Queen

by Faith Hunter

  Time . . . I could—

  Beast took over. Shoved up with my back legs. I leaped. In midair, I/we drew a fourteen-inch vamp-killer from a sheath at my calf. Spun that arm back, winding up. And took her through the neck, near her head. I landed fourteen feet beyond her, in front of Sabina. A bloody blade in my hand. My mind thought, Thank you, Beast. She hadn’t let me bubble time. I started to stand upright. Stopped. Unable to move.

  A dozen swords were at my throat. Carefully, I set the blade on the floor. “Intruder,” I whispered. And sucked in breaths I hadn’t taken while I leaped through the air.

  “Golden. Absolutely, fucking golden,” the camera wolfman said.

  Cym’s death had broken her spell. Her body, blood, and partially attached head were visible. Her lemon scent filled the room, drifting from her body and blood. The wolf moved the camera along her body and up to her head. Cym was dressed vaguely as a pirate, with embroidered vest, a white shirt with full sleeves, thigh-high boots, tight pants, and gaudy, mismatched jewelry. “Sorry ’bout the language, Champ,” the camera wolf added, not sounding at all apologetic, “but that was fuc—fricking fabulous.”

  “She was under an obfuscation spell,” I said. “Witchcraft in the Sangre Duello is disallowed.” Only in La Danza could it be used.

  “She wasn’t dueling. You killed her?” Titus asked. “For using a spell? Isn’t that what witches do?”

  With a vamp-killer I turned her head to expose her fangs. “Witch. Also a Mithran. Also a member of Clan Des Citrons, who are sworn to Titus Flavius Vespasianus.” With the tip of the blade I snagged Cym’s fancy white shirt and pulled it from the vest. On the front was the emblem of a lizard eating its tail.

  Titus looked momentarily nonplussed that I knew all this. Then he got over it. “One acting on her own. Or a traitor to my cause.”

  “She threw this at me last night.” I held up two fingers to show I didn’t have a weapon and slowly inserted them into a throwing knife sheath. I removed the knife and extended it, hilt first, to Leo.

  Leo, no weapons drawn, hands clasped behind his back, walked slowly to me and sniffed along its length. “Magic and the mixed blood of humans and Mithrans. A blade improperly cared for. Or coated with a death curse.” He accepted the blade in one palm, holding it so the light fell on it. “Steel, double-sided blades, set in an olive wood hilt.” Leo’s eyes drifted to Titus. “For Christmas in the year 1702, you gave me a set of throwing knives made from olive wood.”

  “You were my servant,” Titus said dismissively. “I gave similar sets of blades to everyone in my retinue. There were hundreds of you. I decimated an entire olive grove to accommodate the wood needed.”

  Without taking his gaze from the emperor, Leo said, “She attacked you yesterday, my Enforcer. Who was she attacking this time?”

  I thought back to the wild leap in the air. The direction of Cym’s barely seen arms. The people on the other side of her. “She wasn’t throwing a blade. She was casting a curse. I believe it was directed at Sabina, the outclan priestess.”

  Leo’s eyebrow quirked up, just the one. “Indeed?”

  That’s what it looked like. I didn’t say that. I said, with certainty, “Yes.”

  Beast is best hunter. Beast will eat witch head.

  Beast will not.

  Beast hungers.

  “Who sent her?” Titus asked.

  “You. Me. A third party who wishes to rule,” Leo said. “Any of a hundred names come to mind, including Clan Des Citrons, who killed cattle on my hunting lands before joining with you.”

  “They were on your lands?” Titus made a tsk-tsk sound. “I would never allow an unsworn Mithran onto my lands. I control my lands and my cattle better than that.”

  Leo chuckled, that silky sound that coated the flesh of all prey, a laugh full of power and conquest. “They are on your boat, sleeping with you and yours. After being on my lands. How did they get from the house where they killed, to your ship?” Leo’s laughter sang in the rafters. “They are there. Safe. You must ask yourself, what did I offer them to turn on you?”

  Titus flinched, just the tiniest bit. So did I. Had Leo helped the clan to get away and to Titus? Had he turned them? Had he let those people die and then helped the killers get free? No. I’d have heard. Alex would have heard. Leo was sowing discord among Titus and all his people. Probably. “My Enforcer. Do you know how she came to this island?”

  I moved to the window and called down, “Lachish! We need you up here.” To the EVs I said, “Lachish Dutillet cast the ward around this house.”

  Lachish stepped up the last step, walked over to the body, and silently studied it. She had to have been waiting to be called. When I killed the vamp/witch she probably felt the energies and headed up the stairs. She turned to the room and put her shoulders back. Speaking to Titus, she said, “Each time the Europeans have come ashore, there has been an anomaly at the ward. There is no proof, but, there is the anomaly. And we have recorded the timing with electronic security.”

  Sabina said, “Points against the Europeans for trying to disable or kill a judge. The next such infraction will result in severe penalty. True-death is not ruled out.”

  Titus said, “You cannot bring me to true-death.”

  Sabina pulled her gloved hands out of her starched skirts. In one hand was a spear of wood. “I can and I will.”

  Titus took a step back before he could catch himself.

  He pursed his lips, then nodded once, regally. “Your ruling is accepted.”

  He looked at Leo and some unheard communication seemed to take place. Leo and Titus stepped silently across the wood floors, both wearing fighting leathers tonight, both moving gracefully, as if they danced a gavotte in some drafty old palace. Both with hands clasped behind their backs.

  “Do you recognize her?” Leo asked.

  “I do not. You?”

  Liar, liar, royal pantaloons on fire.

  “Yes. She is Bancym M’lareil, once sworn to Jack Shoffru. He tried to take my lands and ended up as a pile of ash.”

  Titus looked ever so slightly impressed. “I wondered what had happened to that old pirate. I suppose you should take her head,” he said.

  “Since she hid among your retinue to come ashore, I relinquish the honor to you. Such humiliation should be avenged.”

  Titus’s eyes went narrow as he realized he had been both insulted and gifted with the task of taking the head of his sworn scion. But he drew his sword and took Cym’s head. Cleaned the blade on her clothes.

  “Well done, my Enforcer,” Leo said. To the emperor he said, “Shall we return to the festivities?”

  “Of a certainty.”

  Festivities? Fangheads celebrated the weirdest things.

  Titus added, “Though you have few in leadership positions with which to continue. Do you abdicate New Orleans and the territories you administer?”

  “I do not. Do you abdicate the territories of Western Europe?”

  “Tedious as it may seem, I do not.”

  “Then let us cut to the chase,” Leo said. “It is an American phrase meaning that we should cease all this meaningless bloodshed. I suggest that we, you and I, duel tonight.”

  “We alone?” Titus asked, sounding surprised. The two circled back to the witch’s dead body and then meandered toward Sabina, who waited patiently at the head of the room. “But your Enforcer has yet to duel.”

  Enforcer. Glacie was next on the list. Glacie, the hulking woman vamp. I had actually seen video of her fighting. She was deadly. And . . . Leo was trying to keep me safe. Why?

  Dark Queen . . . That.

  “We alone. On the sand, much like the death match between Kyros and Nicanor,” Leo said. “It was a thing of beauty, and the mastership of all of Greece was granted into the talons and fangs of Kyros.”

  “It was a splendorous b
out,” Titus agreed, standing beside Leo, the two now looking out the nearest window, standing with much the same posture, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind their backs. “The view of the water here is magnificent. I suggest we engage there, on the beach sand, beneath the moon and stars.”

  “Shall we toast to this?”

  “Oh ho!” Titus slapped Leo’s back in what looked like camaraderie. “I have heard that you retain the services of a human from the Orient, one who tastes of hazelnuts? Is this so?”

  “Ah,” Leo said. “Chin Ho. He is actually Grégoire’s, but he is here. His name means Precious and Goodness. He is from the land now known as Korea, and is most beautiful to look upon, as he is to taste. He is about fifty years old and is aging well, like a fine wine. I would be honored to have your opinion,” Leo said, all civility and elegance.

  “I have a lovely woman I would share with you,” Titus said.

  I took off before I barfed. They were talking about humans as if they were liquor and slaves. Ticked me off. I left the third floor and took the stairs to the ground, under the house. The fighting rings here had absorbed the blood, and the blood itself had been diluted with water from the shower. In spots, the sand was the pale pinkish color of watery blood.

  What was a Dark Queen even supposed to do in this situation?

  Jane will fly by cloth over haunches.

  Seat of my pants.

  Yes. Jane/Beast will know what to do when Jane must do it.

  This is ridiculous. Stupid.

  This is fighting for territory. Beast has fought for territory before. And has eaten big-cat who challenged for hunting grounds.

  That does not make me feel better.

  Beast is best ambush hunter.

  Still stupid. Stupid Sangre Duello. Stupid fangheads. Stupid Leo.

  Then again, I thought, war between countries where millions of young human men and women died while their leaders sat in safety behind the lines was even more stupid and ridiculous. Plans were made and discarded, cities were taken and lost, and people died for nothing. Still. This sucked. I went back upstairs and raided Deon’s commercial fridge, taking a heaping tureen of roasted pig meat and a single fork to the front porch. I set it on a table and dropped onto a lounge chair, putting my booted feet up. And ate.

  Bruiser took the chair beside me. He was holding two glasses of wine. “I’m not certain of the proper wine for whole smoked pork, but decided on an Australian Cabernet-Shiraz and a Chilean Merlot. Which do you prefer?” He held out both glasses.

  “Shouldn’t you be off doing Onorio stuff?”

  “If I have to do another Onorio task I think I shall go raving mad. I need to be with you.” He still held out the glasses.

  I remembered that the Merlot had sucked all the moisture out of my mouth. “I’ll have the Shiraz. Unless you have a Boone’s Farm Fuzzy Navel. That reminds me of Creamsicle, and I’d kill for a Creamsicle right now.” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Not really,” I amended. “Not kill.”

  “I know what you meant, my love. And no, I kept the Boone’s Farm for our celebration when we are safely back home.”

  I shoveled in meat. Drank the Shiraz. It was okay. Bruiser seemed to like the Merlot. “I thought there was supposed to be only beer on the island. Nothing the EuroVamps would approve of.”

  “Officially. I brought a few bottles of my own. May I?” he asked, gesturing with the wineglass at my tureen.

  I offered him my fork. He waved it away and took some of the pulled pork in his fingers and ate. My heart melted. And melted again when he licked his fingers and took another portion. This. This was why I loved him. Bruiser was powerful, elegant, and rich, but there was nothing pretentious about him.

  I set aside my fork and we both ate with our fingers and drank wine, watching the night’s distant storm on the ocean, lightning flickering through the clouds and down to the crashing sea, miles away. But growing closer. The breeze picked up. Stunted trees danced in the wind, leaves flying away with the approaching squall.

  Bruiser asked casually, “Is it a magical storm? Like something that Adan created?”

  “No,” I said. “Just a nightly gulf storm. Mother Nature getting in the last word.” I let a pause fill the space between us, as the gulf splashed and the wind soughed. I took Bruiser’s hand and his fingers wrapped around mine. We sat that way for some time.

  We were still sitting when the tramp of feet alerted us. I set aside the huge bowl and leaned over Bruiser. Kissed him gently. He tasted of pork and fancy wine. And love.

  Battle wasn’t made for quiet moments or relaxing. It was made for the kind of focus that narrowed down to life and death and survival. This break from that intensity and emphasis and single-minded concentration was probably stupid. But I felt the tension flow out of me at the touch of his lips. I breathed into his mouth, and he smiled, his lips moving against mine. And it was exactly the short, peaceful break I had craved without realizing it. I pulled away slightly. “Thank you. I needed that.”

  “As did I.”

  I tilted my head, thinking about the way I had just relaxed. “Did you just share your Onorio magic with me?”

  “It’s proscribed. I would never do such a thing in the midst of a Sangre Duello.”

  My honeybunch just lied to me. It was so sweet I wanted to cry. Instead I said, “If—When Titus loses, that ship can just sail away.”

  Bruiser’s lips pulled up slightly, though the smile never reached his eyes. “So it seems.” His tone said that he knew or guessed that Leo—or I—had that eventuality covered. “However, there are any number of treacherous strategies that the passengers on the ship might attempt. And you have made certain that most of them will not succeed.”

  That meant that Bruiser knew about the plan I had put in place with my one cell phone call from the island. Interesting. Gee had spilled the beans. Or Alex had been listening in when I made my call and told my sweetcheeks. Or . . . something. “Okay,” I said just as softly, thinking about all the people on that ship. “Okay.”

  * * *

  • • •

  We stood twenty feet from the surf on the flat sand. A long, undulating wave train rolled in, over and over, off the gulf. The storm was coming ashore, thunder a constant, disorganized, booming echo, lightning striking down in blasts of light that illuminated the tossing sea, rain in heavy sheets, visible in the flashing bursts. The wind picked up, carrying with it the ozone of lightning and the faint scent of dead fish on the otherwise clean and salty air.

  It wasn’t a magical storm. I knew how to recognize those. But . . . lightning. And Brute was here, which suggested that Hayyel, the wolf’s angel, had eyes on the proceedings. Soul in dragon form zipped through the storm clouds, in human sight looking like cloud-to-cloud lightning; in Beast-sight a light dragon, filling herself with power. I didn’t know why, but the vision made me itchy, worried, anxious. Soul could see and alter the future when she wanted. I knew that. She knew the possible outcomes of this final duel. I shivered in the cold wind. There was something circular and cyclical about this fight beneath this storm. As if it encapsulated everything that had happened since I arrived in New Orleans.

  Leo took to the beach, carrying one longsword and a small sword shaped like a Gurkha kukri, the blade roughly twelve inches long and slightly curved. Titus was similarly armed, but with straight blades. Both wore armor. Leo’s hair was back in a bun that secured it from whipping in the wind.

  Bruiser touched my shoulder and went to stand with Brandon and Brian, the Onorios all in one place. The outclan priestess stood across from them. They had been in that configuration all through the Sangre Duello. Arbiters and judges.

  Leo’s people stood closest to the house. Titus’s people were on the water side of the imaginary ring. The scent of lemons was faint but present, riding atop the smell of salt and vamp. The mo
on still shone overhead, days away still from the full phase, scudding clouds obscuring her light from time to time, casting shadows on the white sand. I took the Glob in hand and stuck it in my pocket, holding it. A good-luck talisman. Its magic shocked my hand, magic captured from the lightning storm that had made it.

  I held the rubies and the gold nugget I never took off in my other fist against my chest. I was armed. Heavily armed. But my arms and ability wouldn’t decide this fight. They were useless.

  The combatants tapped their sword tips to the sand, though I hadn’t seen that before. Maybe a remnant from the Greek fight they had both relished.

  The bell toned.

  Leo struck. Titus blocked with his short blade. It wasn’t the elegance of La Destreza. It was something else. Something cruder, older, battlefield coarse. The swords clanked and clanged. Thunder rumbled. Lightning struck the water out at sea. The moonlight flicked beneath rushing clouds. A storm wave crashed on the shore, foamed up around us all. We spectators danced back, away.

  Not Leo and Titus. Feet in the rising surf, they fought.

  Cut, cut, cut, stab, block, block. Cut, cut. Rain shattered down and stopped. Wind gusted and fell still. All in the space of a dozen heartbeats.

  Both combatants were bleeding, the blood black in the moonlight. My hands tightened on the stones, the Glob in one hand, the nugget and rubies in the other. Leo was injured. Titus was favoring his left leg. Titus dropped to one knee. Sprang away. Leo was winning. Hope, deadly foolish hope, sprang up in me. Rain pelted down, fat, heavy drops that marked the sand like stars. Beast peered out through my eyes, watching everything. Spotting something out in the surf, something dark and silvered, standing there. Vamps from the ship, waiting to attack. Smelling of lemons.

  Lightning hit the water, far off, but close enough to feel electricity in the air, heated as angel wings along my body. Fear of lightning quivered along my nerves, unresolved. The strike illuminated an image of Leo, his arm whipping forward, one knee forward, back leg outstretched. Steel sword high and swooping. Killing strike.