He's just an executioner, she realized.
She didn't ask his name. Didn't want to give him the impression she cared or that she might barter or beg. No way in hell. She’d figure this out without embarrassing herself. She’d go along. For now.
She'd rather fight in a big space where her back wasn't already against the wall. The library had windows, a wide chimney, and a three separate doors to escape through. And if the executioner’s ‘brothers’ were gathering bones, well, that sounded like a golden opportunity. Bones piled like a cord of wood were the perfect materia for snakes.
Haniel would slow her getaway—again.
Lilith resisted a sigh and withdrew her hand from the executioner’s forearm. He watched her, maybe wondering if she’d give him an excuse for violence.
She patted her dress, straightened the bodice, fluffed the skirt, and checked to see if the bit of cardstock with the witch's address was still in her pocket. It was.
“Let me jostle my slave awake,” she said.
“I'll carry him if you wish,” the vampire said.
“Aren’t you a gentleman?” She smiled at him. “I have no doubt you can carry us both on a single shoulder, as handsome and strong as you seem. However, I couldn't imagine making such an entrance. I'll go on my own feet, thank you. Need to stretch my legs anyway.”
The Gentleman nodded amicably. “Sure, sure.”
Lilith turned and whacked Haniel with her foot. Hard.
Haniel jerked when she first kicked him, but he didn't roll over or open his eyes. Like he might snore right through their execution.
Moron. Doesn't he realize the situation I’m in? That we’re both in, together, because if I’m dead, he's dead too?
She dug her nails into her palms and kicked him harder.
Sulfur sparked and smudged with smoke through the room.
At least the minions are paying attention.
Haniel grunted and peeled his eyes open one at a time. Then he tried to roll over and ignore her, so she kicked him a third time.
“What!” he roared.
“You're being rude to our guest,” she hissed.
The Gentleman laughed and adjusted his cap, saluting her violence. When Haniel realized they weren't alone, his body stiffened from temple to toe. Alarm darted through his gaze, then he glared at the other vampire. The ex-angel’s eyes narrowed with masculine challenge.
“We don't have time for this, slave,” Lilith said. “Get up. They want us downstairs.”
“Who does?” Haniel said.
The Gentleman’s eyes twinkled. “New acquisitions can be downright sassy, huh?”
He was laughing at her. Probably because she wore a brilliant, satiny gown but was hibernating in a destitute room with an undisciplined slave, and they both look half starved. She wanted to rip the Gentleman in two straight down the length of his body. She wished she could smack Haniel in the face so hard his smirk would fall off, wither up, and die an agonizing death.
Haniel read something of the situation, either in her face or the other vampire’s, and rose off the bare mattress. He lowered his eyes slightly, like the big guy had, and took inventory of the room. Lilith watched, noticing the repeated snags in his gaze where his eyes saw the invisible minions, and a glimmer of hope slipped into her chest.
The legion was many.
She extended her hand to the Gentleman, mostly to keep the enemy close. She liked to think she'd feel the violence rise up in his skin like a telegraph before he struck.
As soon as he took her hand, she realized she was wrong. His grip was genteel and refined, as benign as an infant's. Too measured. Too comfortable. His elbow practically brushed her tit.
I won't see it coming if it happens this close.
But it was too late. She couldn't retract her hand without revealing that he scared her. She was stuck, and she wouldn't be the first to back down.
She flicked a tiny spark toward him, testing his skin, looking for magic, waiting for him to respond.
He laughed, jolly as a happy Buddha statue, and didn't break stride.
She wished he was on her side.
The air smelled of blood, lard, alkaline intestinal fluid, and urine: the stink of a slaughterhouse rat nest. Scuttling feet, the grinding of teeth, a stink, the clicking of claws across a hard floor. Limbs lay discarded in the hallway, nearly bloodless. Muddy footprints, tacky with coagulated blood, marked the stairway leading up from the basement.
The library was crowded wall to wall, standing room only. Every vampire there, except Catherine, was a Lazarite. Their revolt had finally reached Catherine, and Lilith was caught in the middle. Firelight gleamed on their dirty port glasses.
Life changes fast. Catastrophically fast.
Crap wood glowed in the fireplace, and the smoldering reminded Lilith of Lane’s demise.
Vampires, especially the noble ones, are losing everything fast.
Catherine was on her knees, dress mussed, hair tumbling from its high up-do. Her right biceps had been torn down to the bone. Blood seeped down her skin, dark and sludgy in the amber light.
The assailants could be lumped into two categories: street rats and members of the court. Catherine’s vampires wore indulgent finery: velvet, silk, wigs and stockings even for the males. The other half of the crowd was a ragamuffin bunch in a collection of dirty linen, sack cloth, and denim, sporting a multitude of hats.
Lilith cringed with understanding. New vampires, especially Lazarites, often lost their hair when they were converted. The trauma of the change affected all but the most powerful bloodlines. Therefore, most of these Lazarites were freshly made and covered their baldness with hats. Trendy, antiquated, coquettish…cowboy hats, newsies caps, bolas, beaver felts…
Oh, god, Lilith thought. It’s the end of my life and I’m obsessing about their headwear.
Every one of them was hungry. Starving. Ashen skin, purple veins. Prince and pauper alike, no one was well fed.
Lilith might have been the only one who’d had a recent meal.
“Come on now,” the Gentleman said, leading her through a mob so thick she couldn’t avoid brushing against them. She reached back and clutched at Haniel’s jacket, and her knuckles grazed his flesh. He stumbled and yanked her. She looked back and saw he’d been shoved to his knees.
Lilith released him. The Gentleman waved his hand, inviting her to drop to her knees beside Catherine.
Execution style.
I was wrong.
She should have tried to fight the creature she couldn't beat in order to let Haniel escape. The key must survive, she thought while admitting such a desire was stupid. If she died, she wouldn’t be casting any spells, would she?
She waited for the smell of Haniel’s sulfuric little friends, but vamp body odor overwhelmed her nose, ripe with the fragrance of something that died but hadn’t begun to deteriorate yet.
Stop whining, she lectured herself. Look for a weapon.
More than half the crowd wore necklaces, bow ties, neckties, or belts, each presenting a hundred opportunities. If she spawned a multitude of serpents at the same time, she could surprise them. Hopefully, she could escape while they were distracted.
She nibbled her lower lip. Could she set loose a spark great enough—and precise enough—to create hundreds of lethal snakes in one instant?
She felt inside herself, took inventory, and realized she didn’t have enough magic for such a big-scale project. Not yet. The longer she delayed their Becoming, the more power she’d have. She needed more time.
Maybe they didn’t know she was a Lazarite like them, since her age made her seem like an ancient, Exalted oligarch.
No point in trying to convince them otherwise.
She’d seen the power of a mob before, and it couldn’t be reasoned with.
Lilith made a great show of smoothing the wrinkles out of her skirt before she knelt. The hard floor reminded her of her cave, where she’d worn the surface smooth over a millennia.
&nb
sp; Always thought I’d die in the desert. Lilith sighed. This is bullshit.
Catherine met her eyes, warming with a flicker of hope.
The Gentleman squatted down as if addressing a child.
I’m going to kill him, Lilith decided. Even if she couldn’t save herself, she’d destroy him on the way out.
“Don’t you worry, ladies,” he said. “Sister will be here soon.”
“Ask her if she likes port,” Lilith said because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. “Catherine collects the best ports.”
He smiled, she smiled. The eager glint returned to his eyes, as if he was acknowledging their teeth would soon be at each other’s throats.
Neither one forced violence. Catherine’s Lazarites pointed and jeered in their fancy clothes, but the Gentleman lifted his hat off his head. “Now, now, y’all. Let’s have some quiet.”
A hush fell. No one talked. No one moved. The army stood as noiseless and still as the pile of dry bones mounded in the corner. Their stasis scratched at Lilith’s bravado. She wanted to squirm and scream and thrash.
Catherine fidgeted, her torn arm shook, and she glared around the room, eyes so fierce that she cowed some of her servants.
Lilith watched Catherine’s Lazarites tremble with fear even though their mistress was on her knees, bleeding and outnumbered.
We’re doomed, Lilith thought. There’s no chance these slaves will dare let Catherine go. They know she’ll kill them, or worse.
Lilith scanned the crowd. They were at least a hundred strong, all of them staring at her.
A flutter of an idea brushed across her mind, almost too quick to grasp.
Eyes, she thought, focusing on accessible material: belts, ribbons, jewelry, anything encircling the neck or resting in the hair, especially near the eyes—Lazarites were especially sensitive about their eyes.
If she concentrated…
If she worked with deliberate, brutal precision, she could target their eyes. Focus. Focus, and stay calm.
She needed a distraction. Or several. The spark swelled, but she tamped it down.
Catherine nudged her, clearly expecting something. Help. Protection. Magic, probably. Everyone expected a miracle in a time of need. Lilith wanted to smack her. Why didn't Catherine compose her own damned rescue?
Lilith gave nothing. No word, no smile, no look of solidarity or promise of hope.
She resumed scanning the room full of opponents. They were all breathing, either because they were young or starved. Maybe both. Neither boded well for their self-control.
Who could she convince to pick a fight with whom?
A short female pushed her way to the front of the firing squad. Underneath her long tangle of hair, she was covered with freckles and bites. Her eyes glowed like two fireflies, bright and flashing. When she saw Catherine, she slapped her hands over her cheeks.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “A proper lady!”
She certainly wasn’t looking at Lilith.
Catherine’s nose raised an inch. The new girl—and Lilith decided she was little more than a girl—clapped her hands. “What a beautiful dress!”
Again, she wasn’t looking at Lilith, who would have been more peeved if the situation wasn’t so tense. Didn’t she look like a lady? Wasn’t her dress pretty? Granted, it wasn’t even hers…
“Do you want it?” a male asked the girl, shoving his sleeves up and taking a step forward as if he’d rip the dress off Catherine.
Catherine gasped. “Oh, that’s the last straw! I won’t tolerate this nonsense. You’re all trespassing in my house. This is my home! How dare you.”
Lilith thought, shut up, but if Catherine wanted to make a scene over a dress, Lilith would happily capitalize on the distraction.
One of the fancy slaves said, “It’s our home too, isn’t it, mistress?” He took a step forward. “Haven’t we served you faithfully?”
“Not as faithfully as you’d have me believe.” Catherine waved her hand. “You’ve welcomed these roach-infested vermin! And look at how they’ve treated me.”
“Ah, yes,” the male said, lip curling with derision. “How horrible.” And he turned away and disappeared into the throng.
The girl who admired the dress said, “Mum, is that satin? It’s so shiny!”
Catherine sniffed. “It’s Mulberry silk, you simpering wench.”
“Looks especially fine. Must feel like heaven. What color is that? Red?”
“Vermillion.”
“Oh, wow, mum. You’re so lucky. I wish I had a dress like that.”
As if we’re at a fashion show, not an execution.
Lilith would have laughed, but she was busy thinking the cord wrapped around the girl’s waist would make a nice viper.
Lilith said, “I think you’d look lovely in a proper dress.”
Provided she scrubbed her face, brushed her hair, and sorted out those scabs. Hell, even then, she’d look like a country bumpkin, finery or not.
“Maybe you can help me pick out a dress later?” the strange girl said.
A lanky male to the right grabbed her arm. “Now, Poppy, don’t go filling her head with nonsense.”
“But—” Poppy said.
“Don’t talk to her,” he replied. “Wait for Sister.”
Catherine snipped. “Is your sister ever going to get here?”
Lilith’s heart echoed the sentiment. Her knees were starting to stiffen from stress and the hardness of the floor. If she couldn’t find the perfect moment to act, perhaps an imperfect one would do.
Poppy reached out and touched Catherine’s fancy dress.
A male wearing an army jacket with a corporal’s double-chevron pin on the front panel grabbed Poppy’s wrist and yanked her away from Catherine. The grabber’s eyes seethed with hunger, desire, and hatred. He licked his lips and eyed Poppy’s chest and bitten neck.
Hungry.
The numerous bites along Poppy’s body, on every soft visible surface, indicated she was clearly the nest’s sweetheart. Apparently, everyone loved Poppy, but the male who grabbed Poppy’s arm bore more than gentle sentiments.
His eyes flared with desire. Envy.
Ownership.
“Here she comes,” someone whispered.
The crowd parted like water. Sister arrived, dressed in the ragged jumpsuit of a utility worker. Industrial fuel, from what Lilith could see of its decal on her right breast. Her body was long, almost impossibly so even considering her height, and she slouched.
Lilith’s panic sparked anew.
I’d know that vampire anywhere.
Lilith glanced at Sister’s face and groaned at her bad fortune. She was looking at the one person in existence who hated her personally. In fact, Sister probably hated Lilith more than all the angels in heaven.
Sister blinked, coming to a sudden stop with two loud clomps of her boots. “Mother?”
Chapter 18
Lilith laughed. The hard, gnarled sound ripped from her heart and roared over the audience. Vampires cringed and murmured.
The Gentleman appeared to be the only one not surprised; he tipped his hat back on his forehead and joined in her laughter. As soon as he did, Lilith stopped laughing.
It truly isn’t funny, she thought, and stared at her daughter.
“Hello, Nhang,” Lilith said.
Then she toyed with other responses: Fancy meeting you here, it’s been so long, are you still an insufferable idealist? Did you learn your lesson? Have you been eating enough?
Lilith managed, with her last ounce of patience, to keep her mouth shut.
“Sister,” Nhang corrected. “Everyone calls me Sister.”
In another acrobatic feat of patience, Lilith held her tongue.
“If that’s your mum,” Poppy said, “then she’s one of us. Good to meet you, mum. We all love your daughter.”
Poppy spread her arms wide for a hug. When Lilith didn’t fall into her grubby grip, Poppy asked, “You are one of us, right?”
&n
bsp; Nhang—Sister—cocked her hipbone to one side and her shoulders to another. Like a water moccasin slinking through a swamp. Lethal.
A bubble of maternal pride rose in Lilith’s chest.
“Lilith isn’t anyone’s,” Nhang said. “Hermit. Isolationist.” Her lips twisted into a sneer. “Nihilist.”
Lilith’s mouth opened, then she closed it.
No sense arguing the truth.
The male vampire in the army jacket stepped between Poppy and Nhang. “That’s your matriarch?” His eyes narrowed. “Prove it. Let’s taste the truth of her blood—”
Nhang’s arm shot out, barring his path. Her eyes never left Lilith’s.
“I wouldn’t,” she said. “The older the matriarch, the stronger her blood. And a mere drop of hers could kill you.”
The Corporal’s eyes widened, then squinted, and he glared from Nhang to Lilith and back again. He smoothed his greasy, stinky hair and stepped aside. Lilith realized two things: Nhang hadn’t created him. If she had, Lilith’s bloodline wouldn’t be fatal to him. Furthermore, he hated taking orders. Or maybe he hated Nhang.
He was dangerous.
I know a snake when I see one.
Lilith looked around at the gathering. “I see you’ve gathered quite the—” following, cult, army “—group.”
“Family,” Nhang said. “We’re all family.”
Catherine glared at Lilith. “If this is your daughter, tell her to let us go.”
“Shut up,” Nhang said, without even glancing at Catherine. Her eyes lingered over every detail of Lilith’s appearance: the dress, ruffles, lace, girdle, the dead-as-doornails snakes in her hair that had gone unnoticed by everyone else.
Lilith looked nothing like the pariah Nhang had known in the desert. Her daughter had never seen Lilith in a civilized garment. It looked, to coin a human idiom, like Lilith had sold out.
Back when Nhang first came to life, Lilith hadn’t bothered with much clothing. When she did, it was little more than a sheet or swath of cloth tied at her shoulders and cinched at her waist, the bodice and folds filled with snakes.
‘Who needs fancy things?’ Lilith would say while Nhang rolled her eyes and talked about the convenience of trousers and pockets and sleeves and belts.
Lilith's Amulet Page 14