Black Magic

by D B Nielsen

  “Oh, is that the one at Corinthia? I’ve heard it’s brilliant,” Cole exclaimed. “Can I come along? I’ve got work tonight and could do with some pampering before my gig at the club.”

  Dorian, whose face had resumed its customary scowl, was on the verge of objecting. One look at Cole’s filthy, bloody, hideous appearance was enough to make him puke in disgust.

  But at the mention of Styx, whose opinion of Cole and his poetic skills were up there with Attila the Hun and Dr. Mengele, Dorian gave a perfunctory—reluctant—nod of assent. “Fine.”

  “Really? That’s just—” The words of excitement died on Cole’s lips as he realized his predicament. His eyes flicked between Dorian and Aislinn, afraid to miss an opportunity but equally afraid to betray Aislinn.

  “Fine. Go with your brother,” Aislinn said, perceptively recognizing the need to ensure her firstborn was safe from the Praetorian’s immediate threat. She knew Marcellus had a vicious temperament and preferred it to be directed at herself rather than Cole.

  Whatever else, no matter what he felt toward Aislinn personally, Dorian couldn’t afford to let anything happen to Cole while under the patronage of Styx, whom Aislinn suspected was also Dorian’s business partner. Dorian would have cheerfully thrown them all under a bus—hell, he would have thrown them into a meat grinder at the closest abattoir if he could—but he had no desire to anger a powerful, purebred demon who was in league with the elite of Demura. It wasn’t worth his skin.

  “OMV! OMV!” Cole’s earlier antagonism vanished in an instant. He was almost giddy at the thought of accompanying his brother.

  Disdainfully, Dorian ran an expert eye over Cole, managing not to dry retch. “We’ll need to delouse you first. And burn your clothes. What size are you? You’ve got arms as scrawny as chicken wings.”

  “Burn them?”

  “I’m certainly not having you accompany me in that.”

  “Where am I going to find clothes down here?” Cole asked, displaying his ignorance.

  Giving a cruel laugh, Dorian replied, “It’s the Underground, the most notorious black market in London. You can find anything down here.” Dorian gestured for Cole to follow him but kept a good distance between them. He definitely didn’t want Cole touching his immaculate suit.

  “OMV! Do they have fur down here?”

  Dorian gave a regal nod, deigning to reply. “Seal fur, mink, otter, ocelot, chiru—”

  “Ostrich feathers? Goose down?”

  “Yes, and yes.”

  “Can I have a suit made from crocodile skin in a butter-cream color?” Aislinn heard Cole ask as they exited behind the red velvet curtain.

  “No.”

  “Okay. What about—”

  Their voices faded the further they walked away, but Aislinn could still hear Cole’s pleading, with Dorian’s answers becoming more and more terse and frustrated. She almost laughed. But there were other, more pressing things to deal with.

  Warily, she turned toward her enemy. “Marcellus.”

  “Aislinn.” The vampire before her nodded, cocking his head to contemplate her. “You still think you have the upper hand, don’t you?”

  Marcellus snapped his fingers, and one of the guards walked over to the opposite velvet curtain to retrieve a bloody hemp bag. As he brought it back to Marcellus, she heard the dull sound of scraping metal on concrete where it dragged along the floor.

  “I’ve often wondered why Kayne favored you. I’ve thought long and hard on this problem. It perplexed me, you see. But now I’d like to share a revelation I had during my time under Julius. Kayne chose you simply because you have something that, despite your vampirism and your futile quest for revenge, you’ve managed to retain.” His dull eyes hardened, and his mouth turned down in an ugly manner. “Compassion.”

  She remained silent. She made no move to wrap her hand around the hilt of her skean, which might have posed a threat to the small and pathetic tyrant in front of her. Statuesque, she merely observed his petty despotism, waiting for the moment when she could shut him up. Permanently.

  “There’s a significant difference between you and me,” Marcellus remarked. Aislinn bit her tongue. She would have liked nothing more than to state she agreed. He was a douchebag and she wasn’t. But she swallowed the insult. Now was not the time. “You care about people. That halfwit, Cole. That foul-mouthed, lesbian bitch, Varya. And your longtime secret lover, Caleb.”

  Aislinn didn’t even bother to contradict him. Marcellus was an idiot. Varya wasn’t a lesbian, and she and Caleb had never been lovers. Marcellus’s vendetta against her was riddled with petty grievances against those of her friends who had in some way slighted or angered him.

  Marcellus took the bloody hemp bag from his underling’s hand and casually reached into it. His show of nonchalance was a pretense. He was clearly enjoying this.

  He pulled out a damaged black compound crossbow. The beauty of its sleek shape spoke of how it had been lovingly crafted by Benjamin. She had seen the bow’s likeness before but refused to believe it was the one gifted to her youngest offspring at his rebirth.

  Marcellus offered it to Aislinn, and she took it from him with steady hands, despite her inner trembling. The featherweight crossbow balanced perfectly in her hands, despite the rough nicks and dents in its once-smooth frame.

  Aislinn passed her hand over it, the scent rising like a wraith. Trapped within the nicks of the central riser, vampire blood had dried and gone crusty. She stared in horror, the hair along the back of her neck standing on end and a sick feeling beginning to overwhelm her. At long last she looked up, her eyes seeking out Marcellus’s cold, cruel features.

  “It’s his blood,” Marcellus said, confirming her fear.

  Several seconds elapsed, and she could feel her distress curling like a serpent in the pit of her stomach. Cooper would not have allowed his crossbow to be taken from him if he was in any condition to prevent it.

  Her voice was glacial. “Where did you get it?”

  “Kenya.”

  Kenya.

  It made sense for Caleb to train the newly turned vampires there, preparing them for combat duty in a volatile, war-torn region.

  Despite the Carvery’s basic training environment in the London Coven, designed for daily drills and exercises, it was deliberately non-lethal to help improve the warriors’ skills without disrupting the rest of the coven’s routines. Since no amount of basic combat training allowed for greater weapons proficiency under stress, nor tested the instinctual survival and battle skills which all Malum vampires were created with in the field, the final tests for the recruits were land warfare training and the Abattoir. The recruits needed to be proficient in intelligence gathering, infiltrating enemy lines, structure penetration, long-range reconnaissance and patrolling, and close-quarters battle in the field, based on a similar setup to the Navy SEALs. She reasoned that, at some stage, Caleb, Cooper, and the other recruits had been traveling through the African continent for this very purpose.

  But what had happened in Kenya?

  Aislinn’s striking face hardened. “Cooper will miss his crossbow, but it will force him to take better care of his possessions.”

  Marcellus frowned in surprise. “Don’t you get it? Nothing can save him. Your offspring is dead.”

  “Where did you get that idea?”

  If Cooper was dead or taken by human hunters or dark mages or Marcellus’s men, she surely would have heard about it—unless Caleb wasn’t able to communicate with her. But then rumors would have circulated about their disappearances or deaths.

  “You have the evidence in your hands,” Marcellus replied fervently.

  “I have a crossbow belonging to Cooper and nothing more,” Aislinn said gravely. “Am I expected to believe he’s dead from a bit of dried blood? Papercuts produce more blood. Besides, he’s completing his land warfare training. You remember how brutal that can be, don’t you?”

  It was a deliberate taunt, since making it through the fin
al test course unscathed was almost unheard of. This was another nail in the coffin for Aislinn where Marcellus was concerned, as he’d come the closest to Aislinn’s perfect score but failed to match it.

  Taunting a jacked-up, malevolent vampire might not be the wisest course of action, but she refused to be cowed, despite her qualms. Suspicion was corrosive. It led to a loss of hope, which could spell doom for an immortal. She could contact her oldest brother, Marduk, in Cairo and ask him to investigate, but to do such a thing might mean placing Caleb and the others in greater danger if they were already being hunted—especially if it was by their own kind. Better to leave things alone and trust that Caleb had it under control, despite her deepening fears.

  “You think you’re so smart?” Marcellus crossed the room, taking a glass from a nearby table and emptying a small vial into it. She smelled the sickening sweetness from where she stood and braced herself for what was to come. “The war isn’t over yet, Aislinn. It hasn’t even begun.”

  He swirled the deep vermillion liquid around in the bottom of the glass, then raising it to his lips, downed it in one gulp. Licking his lips in glee, he relished the taste of the bitter blood cocktail which left a tingling, fiery aftertaste in his mouth. His eyes were rimmed with blood.

  Aislinn looked on with a fusion of disgust and apprehension. She had a choice. She could use her dagger. It would be simpler to rid the world of this vermin, here and now.

  Yet remembering what she was here for and sticking to the plan, she deliberately kept her hands where Marcellus could see them and her skean sheathed.

  It went against her better instincts.

  Watching Marcellus’s erratic movements like a hawk, she wondered how much time she really had left, especially since Marcellus’s eyes rapidly dilated and his body began to twitch as if under extreme stress as the drug ran through him.

  It took but a moment. He had a feral look about him. It was there in the dark emptiness of his eyes which gazed at her. “Enough. I’m bored. Let’s get this party started.”

  Chapter 13

  It was the moment she had been anticipating since stepping foot into the Underground.

  In one smooth move, the Praetorian displayed the superior martial prowess of a trained Roman warrior and vampire, throwing a shuriken with speed and accuracy at her torso. She wasn’t surprised by the power in him, though there was no explosion of pain. The blade pierced her thick leather corset but did not penetrate too deeply. She feigned a slight dodge to the left, mirroring a defensive maneuver, but deliberately allowed the blade to make contact. It was a small scratch to the soft flesh of her right ribcage, little more than a nick. It could have been far worse if she’d been unprepared.

  Aislinn knew an attack was imminent but couldn’t account for what form it would take nor when. Yet despite being primed, she did nothing to prevent the attack from happening except a slight feint of hand and body. She knew she couldn’t waste any more time drawing out the moment. No questions, no fear, no wrangling.

  It was time for action, for the plan to be set in motion. She recognized this as she stared into Marcellus’s hugely dilated black eyes with their abnormal, drugged viciousness. Yet even knowing what was necessary, it was unnatural for Aislinn to move so slowly, to allow herself to be a target, and especially to allow herself to be deliberately hit by Marcellus.

  Stick to the plan.

  Her legs suddenly faltered beneath her. Through sheer strength of will, she remained upright and lucid, but her skull felt stuffed with cotton wool, and her vision swam before her. Touching the incision made in her leather corset, she realized the terrible truth. A harsh, jarring blast of self-mockery at her own folly exploded in her mind, and for a second, Aislinn was afraid she would black out.

  “Nightshade.”

  “Non-lethal for one of your strength, but it’ll do the job as it leaches into your blood.” Marcellus was moving fast across her blurry vision, a dark shadow streaking past her periphery. Too fast.

  “I intend for you to suffer, Aislinn. The nightshade will cause you immense pain, the more you struggle against it, and finally, it will bring on paralysis. Once you’re incapacitated, we intend to make good use of you—especially your precious blood.”

  “Has my foolish, entitled son convinced you that Kayne might come to save me?” Aislinn scoffed, but her words lacked force as her tongue felt thick and her mouth dry. The nightshade made her dizzy, but she was not in any pain nor paralyzed yet. She persevered with speech. “Don’t count on it.”

  “You and I both know Kayne isn’t showing up to save anyone,” Marcellus said dismissively. “It’s the cosmic joke of all time—Kayne only created us so he could get back at whatever bastard created him, but the bastard didn’t give a damn.”

  “Karma.” Aislinn gave a mean laugh. “Karma’s gonna get you too, Marcellus—if I don’t get you first.”

  “You wish. The only reason you’re still alive is because of your blood. If the dark mages didn’t have use for you, you’d be dead by now. I’ve invested a lot of time imagining what I’d do to you, how I’d pay you back for the humiliation I endured under Julius.”

  Aislinn gave a bitter laugh and threw his words back at him. “You wish.”

  Enhanced and jacked up, Marcellus moved with frightening, feral speed and a cruel efficiency. The blow she’d been expecting all along finally came. Against instinct, Aislinn didn’t fight back.

  “As I said, you’re lucky you’re still alive because if I had my way, you’d be dust in the wind. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a taste of what I had planned.”

  She blinked away the fuzziness in her mind as his fingers locked around her throat. When he shattered her ribs, the sound of breaking bones reverberated in her eardrums.

  Hazily looking at the vampire in front of her, she shuddered at the soullessness of his eyes. They were fathomless, unblinking pits. Nothing remotely human lived behind those eyes.

  He hit her again. Harder. It punctured her lung.

  “Good thing I don’t need to breathe,” she goaded him, her voice coming out in sporadic bursts accompanied by bloody spittle.

  “Bitch. I’m going to bring you to heel.” He kneed her hard in the stomach. Her jaw clenched. She moaned. Her cries were soft, coming from deep in her gut.

  Stick to the plan.

  Aislinn went limp.

  Marcellus lifted her by her ankle and flung her against the wall. Marcellus’s guards quickly ducked, moving out of the way. The stone cracked—as did several more of her bones—and splintered into jagged pieces, raining on the ground in a shower of dusty gray rubble. But Marcellus didn’t let go of her.

  “Not too much damage. We don’t want to be wasteful and lose too much of your prized blood. My companions won’t be pleased with me if that happens.”

  “Dumbass,” she taunted to get a reaction. She needed him reacting and not thinking, acting not reasoning.

  He stared without blinking, even as her body instantly repaired itself. Bones knitted together. Soft tissue and damaged lung healed seamlessly. That was the gift—and curse—of being a vampire—an almost invulnerable frame.

  Marcellus knew how to endlessly torture her without causing too much harm.

  Still holding tight to her ankle, he swung her wide, smashing her body against the other wall. She blacked out.

  Aislinn swam in and out of consciousness. The poison nightshade made her head spin every time she opened her eyes. Above her, she saw a row of braided electrical cables and swinging iron-caged pendant lights. They moved blurrily overhead like spinning constellations, until she realized that it was she that was moving—fiercely strapped down upon a stretcher and wheeled into a triage area in another part of the tunnel.

  Her body jerked against the tight restraints. The fabric started to tear, ripping apart. But there was no way to easily break the barbed chains that held her down, penetrating her chest, arms, and thighs, without tearing out chunks of her own flesh in the desire to free herse
lf. She was trapped.

  “Don’t bother trying. It’s useless,” Marcellus said, his cold face hovering above the stretcher. “We fashioned this device on a cilice, once used by the Catholic church as a means of repentance and mortification of the flesh. Ironic, isn’t it? I hope you’re not getting too comfortable.”

  Aislinn screamed in anger and thrashed against the restraints, even though the spikes bit deeper into her soft flesh. She looked as if she wished to tear out his eyes. He grabbed her shoulders and forced her back onto the stretcher.

  “Calm yourself. I told you, it’s utterly useless.”

  She blinked away the wooziness at the edges of her vision. “I’m going to kill you, Marcellus. And I promise it will be every bit as painful as I can make it.”

  “That’s what I like about you. You make it easy for me to want you dead.” His fingers locked around her throat.

  “Then just do it so I don’t have to continue listening to your bitching.”

  His face was a mask of cruelty. The last thing she saw was an explosion of stars as his fist slammed into the side of her face and the immense pressure of a thousand needles drove into her mind.

  The sharp, strong smell of medicinal alcohol and acrid, bitter anesthetic hung in the air.

  Aislinn struggled to regain consciousness, fighting her way upright but only to be held back. When she opened her eyes, she realized her predicament, accompanied by the rush of blood to her head.

  “Keep her steady.” The voice was unknown to her but held an implacable authority. It hovered somewhere above her head, but she could feel the air shift as its owner moved slowly from left to right as if searching for the best vantage point to view his prize. “I wish to examine your vampire’s response to my methods.”

  Instinctively, Aislinn jerked and tried to move her right arm, but a searing pain restrained her. She looked down and saw an IV drip tugging at the smooth skin of her forearm, but the liquid inside glowed with an alarming, unnatural fluorescence.