by D B Nielsen
Aislinn swore. Not even thinking about it, she reacted instantly, rolling off the bloodletting table and coming to her feet with her own dagger in her hand.
“Nik, move!” There was a roaring in Aislinn’s ears. She shoved Nik aside roughly as the spell was released. A ball of fire arced from the dark mage’s spread hands and flashed past Nik’s shoulder, landing on the tunnel wall behind them in an explosion of flame and brimstone. The smell of sulfur lingered in the air, and the ground was covered in debris.
Stanislav’s curses greeted the ringing in their ears as, fuming and enraged by the attack, he staggered upright and charged against the dark mage. But before taking even a few steps, he collapsed in a pool of pain. Aislinn noted the dark blood welling at his throat, soaking his gray, military-styled trench coat, and the spreading dark stain across his chest where a chunk of fabric and flesh had been torn out.
“Nik, hurry! Stanislav needs help!” she cried, recognizing the imminent threat as Stanislav couldn’t survive much more.
Nikolaus didn’t hesitate, trusting Aislinn implicitly as he launched himself into danger. He crossed the room in a micro-second, even as the dark mage primed another spell. But she had Nik’s back.
And she had Stanislav’s back too.
Nikolaus’s blood coursed through her body, increasing her strength and endurance, making her reactions faster, sharpening her sight and smell. Aislinn trained her eyes on the dark mage. Like looking at the crosshairs of a sniper scope, she had him in her sights, bringing her hand up and flicking her wrist in one fluid, powerful motion. The skean flashed away upon release, slicing the air as it flew toward its target.
Chapter 17
It struck with a deadly accuracy before the dark mage could release the spell from his fingertips. Maybe he intended to keep Aislinn alive since her blood was so valuable and he could ensure her endless regeneration, but there was no doubt he intended to kill her companions who were entirely expendable. This, Aislinn refused to allow. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. It was as instinctive as a lioness protecting her cubs.
The tip of the skean pierced the dark mage like an arrowhead. Dead center of his forehead. Right between his eyes.
The spell he intended to cast backfired instantly on the dagger’s impact.
It unleashed a horrific manner of death. His skin flayed from the point of the blade embedded in his flesh. Like a cancer, it rotted outward, more skin sizzling, turning to cinders and lit embers, floating away from muscle and bone. It was neither painless nor quick and merciful.
Just as she’d hoped it would be. This was justice. Pure and simple.
The dark mage’s shrieks and cries of agony were terrifying to hear.
“Holy fuck!”
“Vlad’s nuts!”
“Holy shit balls!”
The others backed away in fearful fascination at the sight before their eyes. The clash of battle faded. All fighting stopped.
She suspected that her skean, endowed with heavenly power, meted out God’s justice. Though she had no understanding of why Nathan had gifted it to her, since she was the daughter of Kayne and forsaken by the Creator. Yet if God had a hand in this, she was being used as the messenger.
But why? Unfortunately, she didn’t have time to reason it through at that moment. It would have to wait.
Disbelief showed in the dark mage’s eyes as he focused entirely on Aislinn before the inferno of twisted, dark magic and the blade’s heavenly justice engulfed him. The life force of all the things he’d stolen and corrupted were now tearing him apart, keeping him unnaturally alive.
He reeled in panic. His head was a smoking ball of flame, the skull visible beneath torn and blistering flesh. Hands outstretched, they too were consumed by a strange, red and golden sparked fire, like fireworks or sparklers penetrating the skin and bursting internally.
And the smell.
“Vlad, it reminds me of smoky, baby back ribs on the charcoal grill back in Tennessee,” exclaimed one young Malum guard with a thick accent, smacking his lips in remembrance of his human past. “They were something. The meat would just fall off the bone, they were so tender.” He looked at the roasting dark mage and then at the others. “Is it wrong it makes me think of that?”
Screaming, still alive, the dark mage reached out, skeletal now as flesh hung from the charred bones, blackened and leathery, bloody and visceral. He staggered toward Aislinn, hoping to draw her into the inferno.
But it was too late.
He was a spitting and snarling ball of fire.
Aislinn was crouched in readiness in case he defied the odds. She felt no pity because she knew no pity. Taking no chances, she launched the bloodletting table at him. It struck him in the chest, and he toppled forward onto it, lying prone as it carried him reeling backward down the tunnel. Her precious, drained blood was instantly swallowed up by the intensity of the supernatural flame, useless to anyone. At the loss, he opened his mouth and howled. But the howls were easily overwhelmed by the howling blaze around him, which was enough to melt the metal table.
Seeing his fellow conspirator and their precious cargo go up in flames, Marcellus turned on Varya. His leg swung high, and there was a loud crack as his boot connected with Varya’s ribs. She was unprepared for the onslaught, caught up in watching the maelstrom, and collapsed like a felled tree onto the tracks.
Aislinn pulled the IV drip from her arm, taking care not to spill its payload of dark magic by fashioning a noose from the stiff plastic tubing. Using almost-forgotten roping skills, she swung the noose in the air a few times then released it. It flew toward Marcellus and caught him around his torso. Immediately, she pulled the tubing taut, tugging him backward.
If he struggled or arched too much, he would break the tubing and release the fluorescent ultraviolet-infused liquid onto himself. On the other hand, Varya looked like she was happy to do it for him as she leaped to her feet, recovering quickly to launch an attack on her nemesis.
Aislinn shouted a warning. “Don’t kill him. I need him alive.”
But it seemed Varya had other ideas. “This bastard’s gonna get what’s coming to him. I owe him that.” She turned toward Marcellus. “Mark my words. I will destroy you.”
“Varya, you always were a stupid bitch,” Marcellus spat at her as he struggled to free himself from the ropes without much success.
Varya gave a laugh in response—it was cold enough to form icicles.
Around the makeshift triage area were industrial-looking vents, drains and downpipes. Varya wrenched downward on an iron pipe bolted to the wall with all the force she could muster as her bones knitted together. It refused to budge at first but suddenly gave way, breaking off at a rusty joint with a metallic crunch. Murky brown water with flakes of rusted metal gushed out in a fetid waterfall, then trickled down onto the ground like a leaking tap. But Varya paid little attention.
She raised the iron pipe high, grabbing Marcellus by the collar and yanking him forward. In one movement, even as he tried futilely to block the blow by kicking out at her legs, she swung her body forcefully toward him, rotating her hips to maximize the impact. The jagged, rusty end of the pipe slammed into his neck, tearing through his windpipe in a splattering of black blood.
“No wonder you like decapitation so much!” Varya finally exclaimed with a satisfied grin.
Aislinn was not so pleased. Her face was like thunder. “What part of ‘don’t kill him’ didn’t you understand?”
The other vampire gave a shrug. “The not dead part.”
“I wanted him alive,” Aislinn said darkly. “I planned on bringing him before the Atum Council once I’d ensured his cooperation.”
“She means to say she was going to torture him in Styx’s basement until he was a blubbering, hot mess and had spilled his guts,” Stanislav said. “Not literally—well, maybe literally—but more metaphorically. We were hoping to get information from him about what he knew about Black Magic, the dark mages, and the theft of ancient
vampire blood.”
“Well, how was I supposed to know your plans?”
“I deliberately didn’t tell you my plans because I didn’t want to compromise your role as Julius’s second-in-command.” Aislinn sighed in exasperation. “What am I supposed to do now? We’ve got one barbecued mage and a headless vampire.”
Stanislav snorted derisively as Nik ensured his wounds were only superficial and not permanently damaging. “And an appointment in Styx’s basement that will never be made.”
“Can’t you torture someone else instead?” Varya grumbled, feeling like everyone was ganging up on her. “Just not me.”
“Yeah, sure. Maybe Styx will allow Aislinn to interrogate someone else,” Nikolaus chimed in on a mocking note. “What about Dorian?”
“It’s non-transferable, peeps. It’s not a gift voucher.” Aislinn would have liked nothing better than to torture Dorian for numerous reasons, but it wouldn’t be as easy as beating him in a drinking competition. “Dorian’s betrayal of his own kind will cost him dearly when the Atum Council is made aware of his treachery. Even Julius won’t be able to protect him then.”
“Dorian is as slippery as an eel,” Stanislav said grimly over his shoulder as he strode to collect his daggers from the floor. “He will try wriggling out of getting caught.”
“True that,” Aislinn said. “I’d be surprised if he hasn’t already thought it through.”
She might have said more, but Benjamin raced back through one of the large exploded openings, covered in gray dust and blood, but seemingly exhilarated from the fight. “Is it over then?”
“Not quite,” Stanislav said. “My men are chasing the last of Marcellus’s guards in the furthest reaches of the tunnels. If we hadn’t been warned, it might have gone quite differently, though.”
As if on cue, the great doors at the end of the tunnel banged open, and Zhenya, with semi-automatic in hand, strode into the room, followed by several of Stanislav’s men, holding between them the struggling forms of Rattail and the vampire escort who had accompanied Aislinn and Cole into the Praetorian’s domain.
Roughly pushing Rattail from behind, Zhenya asked her boss, “What shall we do with this one?”
Stanislav sheathed his daggers and looked at the thin, unkempt blond vampire. “Take him back to headquarters and torture him for any information he may know.”
In a fit of foolish bravado, Rattail spat. “I don’t have anything to say. No one tells me anything.”
“Oh, I’m certain that vermin like you knows how to gather information,” Stanislav said. “Listening at keyholes, around corners, scurrying furtively here and there. I want the details. You might as well tell me. One way or another, you’re going to talk.”
“Do your worst,” Rattail jeered. “What can you do to me that could possibly be worse than the dark mages if they find out I’ve betrayed them? I’ll bite out my own tongue before I tell you anything.”
“Oh, that part will come, as will extracting your incisors,” Stanislav said grimly.
“That might not be necessary,” Aislinn said, walking slowly toward the captive. She held loosely in her hand the plastic noose still containing the fluorescent ultraviolet infused liquid. “There’s an easier way to persuade him.”
At that, Rattail’s eyes went wide, and he gave up his hopeless struggle against Stanislav’s beefy henchmen, sagging like a deflated balloon. He began begging for his life in earnest. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know, but please, please don’t stick that into me.”
Aislinn gave a cold laugh. She had no intention of using the precious dark magic on a lowly informant, but she didn’t need to tell him that.
The other prisoners squirmed uncomfortably, afraid of a similar fate. The messenger she had sent to Stanislav—Basil, the tall, square-jawed Sanguis who seemed less stupid than the others—protested. “What about us? What about me? I did as you asked.”
Vincent appealed to Aislinn. “Besides, we had no more love for the Praetorian than you did.”
Jerry and Mike looked at her in mute appeal, seemingly having lost their wits and ability to speak. She turned toward Stanislav and gave a brief nod.
He looked at the men shrewdly. “I will spare your lives on one condition. You will be incorporated into my military and answer to my men, working the Underground as my eyes and ears.”
They quickly nodded in agreement, almost prostrating themselves before him in gratitude. Aislinn quickly turned away, rejecting their quite vocal and profuse thanks. Better they had died than indebt themselves to Stanislav for their very lives. The Underground Russian vampire mafia was no picnic, more like a very long walk in the sunlight.
“I’m taking this back to Julius,” said Varya, brutally slicing off Marcellus’s head from his dead body where it lolled backward, attached only by stringy sinew and a broken spinal column. She flourished it in the air. “This is going to earn me thanks on a royal scale.”
“Seriously?” Aislinn asked, wanting to have another go at her friend for costing her a prized informant and being able to collect her winnings at Styx. “It’s going to earn you an ass whooping in the Carvery on a royal scale.”
“It’s so worth it. Did you see Marcellus’s face when I ripped out his throat? No? Here, let me show you.” Varya gleefully waved his head in the air so his pale, lifeless features and vacant eyes were on display for all to see. “He looks more animated dead than when alive.”
“He has a nicely shaped skull,” observed Zhenya with macabre curiosity. “It would be good for a candle holder.”
“Julius might be able to use it as a goblet to drink from,” Varya offered.
“Oh, for Vlad’s sake,” said Aislinn in exasperation, throwing up her arms. “Don’t give him any ideas.”
“I prefer heads on stakes,” Stanislav voiced gruffly in his thick Russian accent. “It acts as a deterrent to others who would be foolish enough to mess with my business. Perhaps you might be interested in a little negotiation?”
“I’m listening,” Varya replied.
“You two are incorrigible,” Aislinn muttered, turning away from them and walking down toward the end of the tunnel to retrieve her unscathed skean from the burned figure of the dark mage. From a distance, they could hear her muttering insults—though it wasn’t quite evident whether these were directed toward Varya or the dead Druid. They were, however, very inventive, with some choice parts of a baboon’s and warthog’s anatomy.
“Ignore her,” Varya said dismissively. “What did you have in mind?”
Stanislav hooked his arm around her shoulders as he bargained. “A shipment of extremely rare type AB infant blood from Malta. 2018. A very good year for our harvest.”
“Keep talking.”
“Not enough? You’re killing me. How about I throw in a crate of AK-103 assault weapons? Better than AK-47. Superior penetration and stopping power.” He guided her toward the tunnel’s exit, his men following up the rear, killing anything that appeared to be still moving. “I’ll even provide the gold-tipped ammunition at cost.”
“Getting warmer,” Varya said, holding tightly onto her prize.
“Chyort! You’re a hard woman to do business with, but I like you. Perhaps we should discuss terms over proper Russian drink?”
“Stanislav, now you’re speaking my language.”
Chapter 18
Despite being persona non grata since she had failed to introduce her youngest offspring, Cooper, to the head of the London Coven as requested by deliberately allowing Caleb to whisk him away to vampire boot camp, Aislinn was not afraid to appear before her vicious-natured brother. She threw open the double oak doors before Julius’s personal guards could stop her—not that Darius or Gaius would want to risk their heads in an attempt at stopping her, other than blubbering some meaningless nonsense—and she strode into the Inner Sanctum unannounced, accompanied by Varya and her disembodied offering.
She expected some sort of outcry, but all was silent apart from the l
oud sound of her boots intentionally heavy on the mosaic floor. Under its row of lantern pendants that bathed the chamber in pools of golden light, the sanctum was empty.
“No one’s here,” Varya pronounced, stating the obvious.
Aislinn’s eyes swept the length of the hall. Julius preferred his self-imposed isolation from the world behind the fortress-like walls of his private domain within the coven, so she was surprised at his absence. It could only mean one thing.
“Prima Aislinn,” Darius said breathlessly, more out of fear and awe than because he was out of breath. He bowed obsequiously, racing in front to halt her progress down the hall. “That was what I was trying to tell you. The Minter is here.”
Of course.
She had not failed to notice the coven was unusually empty of the eyes that normally bored into her back which belonged to the younger, more hedonistic members of the London Coven and those visiting luminaries from afar who often lounged around on plush velvet divans and circular banquettes in the middle of the Vestibulum. There were only a few reasons why the indolent inhabitants of the coven would move themselves, such as an event like Halloween, a to-die-for celebrity party, or a visit from the Minter. Aislinn had never known them to budge even in times of trouble, such as the air raids on London during World War Two. They took immortality to the extreme, believing they were invincible.
Coming to a standstill before Darius, she asked, “Where is my brother?”
“I—I believe Primus Julius is—er—is in the balnearia,” Darius stammered.
The balnearia. Julius’s private bath.
Aislinn nodded, instructing the others to, “Wait here.”
The Inner Sanctum was the oldest part of the manor house, built over Roman fortifications. In typically ostentatious Roman style, Julius had built a bathhouse complex. The heart of the complex was the Great Bath, a lead-lined pool covered by a high, barrel-vaulted ceiling. More bathing pools and changing rooms were to the east and west of the manor house. But Julius reserved for himself the King's Bath.
