by Elena May
“No, he cannot,” Nimah said as she dragged Myra along her chosen path, and her voice was sad. “But he can delay them.”
Myra halted, this time managing to stop Nimah as well. “They will kill him!”
Nimah turned around, her moves slow and melancholic. Her black eyes met Myra’s, and in them Myra saw a history so dark and deep it made her choke. “They cannot kill him. He is already dead.”
Myra was shaking her head, but Nimah kept speaking. “We are monsters, abominations. But your life and the lives of your friends are bright and precious, burning like little flames in this unending night. Each of them is worth many of ours.”
This was not true. Nimah was lying, lying. Her life was precious, as was Leo’s, and Ila’s, and Alex’s, and everyone’s. “Please, we have to help him.” She tried to drag Nimah back but was powerless as the vampire pulled her further on.
“We can’t help him. All we can do is live and make sure his sacrifice is not in vain.”
Myra turned back, and the fight blurred through her tearful gaze. One of the three attackers lay dead, and one knelt on the ground, his arms wrapped around his abdomen, soaked in blood. But Yong was still standing, smiling and confident. Quick as the wind, the vampire raised his knife and struck.
A scream rose in Myra’s throat but froze there, unuttered, suffocating her. The blade moved through the dark mists, cutting through Leo’s eye and sinking deep, as if it was butter. This smiling eye, in which she had seen laughter, and warmth, and stars, was now gone.
Leo cried out, raw and primal, his scream mingling with a raven’s caw. Yong grabbed him by the collar and sank his teeth deep into his neck. Myra saw Leo’s body sag, as if the viselike grip on his neck was the one thing that kept him upright. And when the orange-haired vampire released his victim, Leo collapsed on the ground, unmoving, staring at the black clouds with his single eye. Yong raised a wooden stake and struck true.
Stunned, Myra allowed Nimah to drag her on. Only moments before, she had been talking to Lidia, planning a trip to the beach. And now Lidia was dead, and Leo was dead, and by the end of the day she would be dead too, along with all Resistance members and Ila’s vampires. It was the end of all things.
The only light Myra saw was that the children and some the elderly had stayed in the Resistance. Perhaps they would find another hideout and, years from now, the new generation would strike again. Or… was Vladimir there right now, slaughtering them all?
“Come, we can hide here.”
Myra followed Nimah’s gaze and saw a small cut in the rock. Nimah dragged her on, and she stumbled along a dark and narrow tunnel. Suddenly, Nimah cried out and jumped back. A long sword swung in a narrow arc, working around the stone walls rising on each side. The blade cut through Nimah’s leather armor, passing within a hair’s breadth of her skin.
Myra looked into the deep dark, trying to adjust her eyes. She could barely discern the forms of two large male vampires, long swords in their hands.
Nimah ducked to avoid another swing and pushed her long knife at her attacker’s leg, but he sidestepped it, like a kid jumping over a rope. She dove low and passed underneath the other vampire’s arm to go behind him. The second assailant raised his sword high above his head and swung it down, but Nimah twisted like a dancer, evading the blade and tripping him while he was off-balance. She thrust her own sword into his back as he fell.
The first vampire snarled, and in the split second Nimah needed to rip out her blade, he took advantage and lunged towards her stomach. She twisted around at the last moment, but it was not fast enough, and the knife made a long, deep cut across her back. She wavered on her feet, and the attacker used the moment to grab her and sink his teeth into her neck.
Only then did Myra remember that the uncomfortable weight in her hand was a knife. She had trained for combat for as long as she could hold a blade, but it had only been in artificial, staged situations. Apart from the pathetic skirmish with Casiel’s people and the short-lived fight that had taken Alerie’s life, Myra had never been in a real battle, fearing for her life and the lives of her companions and ready to take a life in return. But now was not the time for doubt. She steadied her trembling hand and pushed the knife into the distracted vampire’s back.
She knew she was not strong. She feared she could not give the blade a proper push, and it would barely scratch the vampire’s skin. To her surprise, the knife entered the undead flesh as if it was soft cheese, the blade screeching as it scraped along a rib.
The vampire cried out, and Nimah used the opportunity to remove her stake from her belt and slide it into her attacker’s heart. She yanked it out and dropped to the ground, pushing the wood into the heart of the second attacker.
Myra noticed that Nimah was shaking. “We need to bind your wounds.”
Nimah shook her head and relaxed on the ground. “It would be useless. I won’t be of any help for the rest of this battle.” Her head turned to the exit, her dark eyes impossibly wide. With a clenched heart, Myra followed her gaze, quite certain she would not like what she would find.
Ah, she hated it when she was right. Three vampires were entering their unsuccessful hideout, eyes fixed on them. Myra sheathed her knife, took out her gun, and aimed at the closest vampire.
Myra had been a decent shot back at the Resistance, during their training sessions. Often, she had hit her target. But she had been calm and in no danger, and the target had been unmoving. Her life and the lives of others had not depended on her aim. Control your breathing, she had learned. Easy to say. And perhaps easy to do as well, when one’s breathing was not ragged and rapid, and one’s heartbeat was not insanely fast.
She missed.
There was no way Nimah could get up and fight. Myra had to face three full-strength vampires alone. A dark laugh bubbled in her throat. Her best choice would be to put a bullet through her own head instead of letting these monsters drink her like some animal.
Before she could decide what to do next, the two vampires closer to the exit froze in their tracks. Myra watched in transfixed horror as their heads separated from their bodies and rolled simultaneously at her feet. The two headless bodies collapsed to the ground as a sword pierced the third vampire’s back while another cut off his head.
“Sorry I’m late,” Prince Vladimir said as he wiped the blood off his twin swords against his victims’ clothes.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Painted Red
For a moment, all Myra could do was stare. He wore no armor, just one of his usual crimson tunics and a black vest. Blood drenched his clothes and streaked his face and hands, but his posture was strong, and she doubted any of the blood was his own.
“You… you filth. You did this. My friends are dying because of you.”
He sheathed one of his twin swords, now clean, but kept the other in his hand. “What? You think I led you into a trap to destroy you and Ila?” He knelt by one of the bodies and removed a short dagger from the dead vampire’s belt, tucking it into his own. “That would have been far too easy. Not my style.”
Nimah lifted herself on an elbow and snorted. “Right. Even if you didn’t betray us, someone did. Who else knew of our plan?”
“No one,” Vlad said.
“And by ‘no one’ you mean Tristan, Armida, and yourself,” Myra said. “One of you must have told someone.”
The Prince took a step towards the exit, his eyes running along the dark walls, examining every crack and crevice. His grip around his sword’s handle remained firm. “Armida and Tristan can keep a secret. Someone else must have heard us talking, though I cannot imagine how or when.”
“If you’re certain they said nothing, and no one could have overheard you,” Nimah said, “we are left with one option. You must have spilled the beans.”
He turned his gaze from the exit and looked back at her, one eyebrow raised. “If you are delirious from the blood loss, you better keep quiet and not waste our time.”
“And what ab
out Callisto?” Myra said.
“What does Callisto have to do with anything?” Vlad said, his voice sharp.
“You might have written to her about your plans, and she might have told someone. Or someone might have intercepted the letter.”
“Which is one of about a thousand reasons I never told her.” He turned back towards the exit, sword raised. “Now is not the time to solve riddles. Come. It is not safe here, and we still have a Wizard to destroy.”
“Nimah is badly hurt,” Myra said. “She can’t walk.”
“Of course not,” Vlad said. “If she had been feeding well like a normal vampire, her wound would have started healing by now.”
Feeding well like a normal vampire. An idea struck Myra, and she looked at Nimah, shaking. “Would human blood help you heal? You can feed off me.”
The Prince laughed. “Myra, if you are so desperate for a bite, you should just say so.”
She tried to ignore him. “I mean it.”
Nimah smiled. “It is a noble gesture, child, but I cannot accept. I haven’t tasted human blood in centuries. If I start now, I might never stop.”
“And you prefer to die?” Myra said, incredulous, but another idea struck her. “What about vampire blood?”
“I drink vampire blood only if the vampire hasn’t fed on humans recently,” Nimah said.
Myra looked at Vlad. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you’ve been staying away from humans?”
“Indeed,” he said. “I fed on two domesticated humans just an hour ago. And if you thought I would let her drink me, you are out of your mind. I am not running some charity, sharing my blood with random vampires. Right now, I am the only one who can destroy the Wizard, and I need every single drop of blood I have.”
Destroy the Wizard? He still had hope? Perhaps all this would not be in vain after all. “So, what should we do?”
“About what?” he said. “I said we have to go. I said nothing about her.”
Myra stared at him. “You can’t mean to leave her here. You said it yourself—this place isn’t safe.”
“Again, I fail to see the problem.”
Myra met his gaze, her eyes burning. “She will die.”
He sighed. “And this is my concern because…”
Myra shook her head, throwing her arms in the air. “Honestly, you’re a monster.”
“No, I am a troubled and misunderstood soul with a heart of gold hidden beneath my uncaring exterior.” He rolled his eyes. “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself to help you justify our twisted friendship? Wake up, Myra. I am what I am. I want the Wizard destroyed, but I couldn’t care less about any of Ila’s vampires.”
Myra crossed her arms across her chest. “Then I’m staying.”
“No,” Nimah said. “The jerk is right about one thing. This place isn’t safe. You’ll be safer with him.”
“But…” Myra started to protest, and Vlad pushed her aside.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” he muttered and pushed the tip of his blade into Nimah’s heart.
“No!” Myra cried and rushed forward.
Vlad straightened up and held her back. “I am saving her life, you fool.”
“He is right,” Nimah said with a tired smile. “If anyone comes in here, my only chance is to play dead. I’m obviously neither beheaded nor burnt, so my only chance is to make them believe I was staked. I need blood on my chest.”
“But you will lose even more blood,” Myra said.
“The wound is shallow. It will stop bleeding soon.” Vlad knelt down to reach inside Nimah’s pouch. “I believe I have a better use for this.” He took out the explosives.
Myra threw Nimah one last look as they left the cave. “She can’t recover and leave the cave on her own, right? After this fight is over, we need to come back for her.”
He rolled his eyes. “This is ridiculous. You heard Ila—after this fight is over, we are enemies. She will try to hunt me down and kill me. Why would I be going around saving her lackeys?”
“Vlad, please,” Myra said softly. “You must promise me that if anything happens to me in this fight, you will tell her people where to find her.”
“Stop with the dark self-pitying predictions,” he said. “Nothing will happen to you as long as you stay by my side.”
“Promise me,” she said. “Please.”
He sighed. “All right, I promise.”
As he spoke, he sheathed his sword, pulled his bow from his back, nocked a wooden arrow, and let it fly. Myra’s gaze followed the arrow’s path to a group of a dozen vampires approaching them. The arrow struck the first one’s heart, and Vlad fired three more, each finding its mark. He then returned his bow to his back and unsheathed his twin swords once again, lunging towards their attackers.
Myra blinked—the whole scene had taken place in less than a heartbeat. She had barely seen the vampires approaching, and four of them were already dead. How could she ever hope to match such speed? But she clutched at her own knife and ran after him.
One vampire fired a wooden arrow towards the Prince, but he swung his swords, cutting it down midair. Another arrow flew, aimed at his heart, and this time he sheathed one sword, caught the projectile in its flight, flung it back with his bare hand, and unsheathed his blade once again. All within the blink of an eye, and another attacker lay dead.
Vlad reached the group and swung both his swords in wide arcs. One found a vampire’s neck and went straight through, the cut strong and clean, as if slicing through a ripe pear. But the other sword met a blade, and the metal clanged, loud and clear, the sound resonating across the battlefield. A great sword swung down, aimed at the Prince’s head. He crossed his swords high above his head, blocking the powerful swing, but another blade flew towards his rib cage, and another further down, aimed to cut off his knees.
His knees bent and he jumped, stepping with one foot on the lower blade aimed at his legs and propelling himself upward, placing the other foot on the sword targeting his chest. Up and up, until he stepped on the head of the vampire who had swung the great sword and flung himself high up in the air, his body twisting together with his swords. His twin blades cut through a vampire’s neck, and Vlad turned in the air and landed on his feet again, his swords raised, dripping blood.
Blood seeped into the rocky ground, nourishing the twisted mushrooms. The Prince stood alone, facing the five remaining attackers. Myra ran until her legs ached, but he was still far away. Sharp stones bruised her feet through the boots. Soft mushrooms burst underneath her steps, mushy and slippery, and she fought for balance. She had almost reached the group when one vampire turned around, looking directly at her.
Myra saw her attacker clearly, every point of her face sharp and distinct. Long, curly dark hair with two narrow blue streaks outlining her round face. A soft jawline, full lips, amused black eyes under thin, shaped eyebrows. The vampire raised her bow and let an arrow fly. Myra saw the projectile fly towards her, fast and certain. She jumped to the side but already knew it would be too late.
But then Vlad was in the air again, twisting and turning, jumping on heads, blades, and drawn stakes. He landed in front of Myra, his heart right in the arrow’s path. He swung his swords into a cross in front of his chest, cutting the arrow in the middle and stopping its flight. Broken splinters fell on the ground, and his right-hand sword shot ahead, straight into the archer’s stomach, while the other blade cut through her neck. Her head rolled on the ground, blue-streaked dark hair spilling over red mushrooms. A flock of cawing black ravens descended, ignoring the raging battle and fighting to get the first pick of dead flesh.
The Prince picked up his blades and walked towards the remaining four attackers, blood drenching his hair, clothes and face and dripping down his swords and boots. A god of wrath and war. The ravens rose from his path and circled above his head. His blades sang a song of battle, of rage and victory, of fallen heroes and triumphant foes. His swords seemed to soak in the enemies’ blood, feeding on it
like vampires and growing stronger. They glowed through the dark mists like silver vessels of wrath, cutting through flesh and bone. Three more heads rolled down to feed the twisted mushrooms and starved vultures.
Only one vampire remained, clothes torn and blood-soaked and eyes filled with rage. His blades moved with a strength and wrath to match Vlad’s own. The Prince raised his swords to block a blow, but the other vampire dropped down, a wooden arrow stuck in his heart.
“I had him, you know.” Vlad turned around to glare at their savior.
Tristan beamed at him. “Of course you did.”
He wore white from head to toe, his shirt edged with silver embroidery. The new look made him strangely angelic, pure like freshly fallen snow over the dark battlefield. The only thing that marred his pristine appearance was a bright red cut across his upper left arm.
Vlad bent down to pull the wooden arrow out of the body and flung it forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Myra saw a vampire fall.
“Have you seen Armida?” the Prince asked.
“Not since we joined the fight.” Tristan’s smile disappeared. “Look what those pigs did to my shirt!”
Vlad swung his sword, breaking a flying arrow. “My boy, how many times do I need to tell you not to wear your favorite shirts in battle?”
“And how was I supposed to know we would fight?” Tristan complained. “This was supposed to be just another relaxing cloudy day, while the herbivores and the humans did the heavy lifting. This is so unfair.”
Myra glared at him. Her friends had died, and she had no patience for his whining.
“What is unfair?” the Prince asked.
“Why is it always me?” Tristan grumbled. “I am always the one to get the nasty, icky wounds. I am always the one to get undignified human diseases that have me throwing up my own guts. I am always the one to have his blood drunk to the last drop and forced to feed off rats and stink for days! I am sick of being the universe's punching bag.” He swung his sword, decapitating an approaching vampire.