by Elena May
Red tendrils shot through the black sky above, pulsing like swollen veins. Myra looked at Vlad. His eyes, wide and red-rimmed, stared at the rising flames. She knew his thoughts without him speaking them. Tristan had done this. And now, Tristan is in there.
Myra knew that, in theory, it could have been any of Ila’s vampires who had done it. But who would have the strength? It had to be Tristan, and now Tristan was caught up in that mess of fire and rocks. And the Wizard was gone.
Gone. Just like that. So many years of darkness, so many tears, so much pain, so much suffering, over something so small, something so easily destroyed. The Wizard had been powerful, and it had given power to anyone who controlled it. It had given the Prince the power to rule over the world, to hold the lives of every single human in his hands, as if they were mere pawns for him to play with. But it had shown him that the taste of power was bitter, and if he wished to rule, he had to swallow down the bile.
There was nothing to control the weather now. Perhaps it would take a few hours for the clouds to disperse, and it could be days, even months, before the weather came back into balance. But it was over. They had won. So many had died, but they had won.
“You should go,” she said. “Tristan needs you more than I do.”
He stared forward, his lips pressed together. She was sure he wanted to run and dive into this hell of sliding rocks and bodies and hungry flames. “Seriously. Go.” Perhaps no more attackers would come. Her gaze wandered across the bridge.
She froze. There he was, smug, and annoying, and repulsive as ever. Yong stood on the other side, looking at them. Myra’s gaze darkened as she remembered what he had done to Leo, and without thinking, she fired a shot.
He was far away, and her bullet barely scratched his shoulder. He grinned at her and raised a large compound bow. The vampire fired an arrow, and Myra tried to follow its path, but it was so fast. A drop of rain fell on her cheek, and a heart-wrenching scream pierced the mists from somewhere far away.
Myra’s feet were heavy as lead, and she was not fast enough to support Vlad as he fell with a surprised look in his eyes. All she could do was stand there, frozen to the spot, staring wide-eyed at the wooden shaft sticking straight from the vampire’s heart.
Chapter Sixty-One
Weeping Skies
As soon as any baby born at the Resistance was strong enough to hold a stake, they would learn exactly what to do with it. They practiced on life-sized vampire sketches, on vampire dolls made of old rags, or sometimes even on real vampires, captured outside and bound in titanium chains. Every Resistance member had to remember just one simple rule—the stake had to go through the heart.
Myra knew a stake through the heart when she saw one, and she was seeing it right now. Yet seeing and believing were two distinct concepts, as different as good and evil. It could not be. This had been the point of the whole argument with Tristan—the Prince had agreed to show his confidence in the younger vampire by letting him take the truly dangerous task, while Vlad did the safest thing in the world—getting Myra away and guarding the bridge. And now, Tristan had accomplished his task and had, presumably, survived. And the Prince…
The Prince was dead.
Myra collapsed to her knees. Hard stones bruised her bones and tore off her skin, but she did not move. The Prince could not be gone. He had always been there, always larger than life, always a part of this world, always ruling it, whether openly or from the shadows.
And now, he was dead. Perhaps she had to rejoice. She had hated him, had prayed for his death. Yet, an overwhelming sense of loss gripped her, and with a jolt of horror, she realized that her grief at Thomas’s death had been lesser.
A cold drop fell on the back of her hand, and her eyes traveled up. The sky had broken, releasing all the water that had built up in the grey clouds. Not a downpour, just a drizzle, like rolling tears. Perhaps, with its last breath, the dying Wizard mourned its former master.
Myra threw a quick look across the bridge—Yong had engaged a group of rogue fighters and was making no move to advance. The smell of rain rose across the field, along with another stench, sharp and sickening—blood diluted in water. Myra sucked in a shuddering breath and, with a trembling hand, reached out to touch the Prince’s shoulder.
“Vlad?” she breathed, her voice small and broken. “Vlad, please…”
Who was she speaking to? He was gone. She would never receive a reply. But perhaps the broken sky would hear her and allow her to join in its mourning. Perhaps…
His eyes shot open.
Myra cried out and jumped to her feet.
“Metal,” he croaked. His voice turned into a cough.
Myra blinked. As far as she knew, a stake through the heart would kill instantaneously. Why was he still able to talk and move?
“The arrow tip,” Vlad said, his voice soft and raw. “Arrow for killing humans. Not vampires. Shaft is… wood. But tip is metal. Cannot kill.”
“You’re not dying?” Myra whispered, as if afraid that if she spoke loudly, the vision would go away.
“Sorry to disappoint,” he coughed. “If it makes you… feel better… hurts like hell.”
“Can I help?” She placed her hand around the wooden shaft. “Should I remove the arrow?”
“No,” he said. “The arrow is stopping the blood loss for now. As for help, blood would be nice.”
Myra nodded and rolled up her sleeve. He stared at her for a moment and started to laugh. She glared at him. “What?”
Unfortunately, his laughter turned into a vicious coughing fit, and she had to wait for it to abate before he could reply. “You… you are really desperate for a bite, aren’t you?”
Myra rolled down her sleeve, resisting the urge to slap him. “Forget I ever offered to help.”
“Don’t be mad. I think you are almost ready. But not quite.”
Her glare grew darker, but she knew she had to somehow convince him to drink—wood or not, the Prince looked on the brink of death. “Almost?” she cried. “Now you listen to me, you stubborn vampire. I’m ready. I want to share my blood with you, to feel your teeth pierce my skin, to feel my blood flow through your veins.”
“Good,” he said. “I am glad you told me that. Now, I can die happy.”
“Vlad, that’s not even remotely funny,” she snapped.
He grinned. “I am only teasing. I have no intention of dying—not now, not ever.”
“A pity, really.”
“Please, don’t be angry. I know you mean well, but you are only saying what I want to hear. A day will come when you will say those words and mean them, and I prefer to wait.”
“Keep waiting,” Myra said. “Anyway, where do you think I can find you blood if you refuse to bite me?”
He raised his eyebrows, but the effort seemed too much, and his eyes fell shut. Rain fell on his face, soaking his hair. “Come on, look around you. We are surrounded by dead and dying humans and vampires. Those who are not dead yet are still drinkable. We are practically standing in the middle of an all-you-can-eat buffet. You can check if you can find me something decent.”
She shuddered. “You make me sick. I’m sorry I offered to help.”
“Suit yourself,” he whispered, his voice growing weak. Myra looked to the bridge—a pair of vampires had started to cross. She fired a shot, but an arrow came from somewhere and felled one of the attackers. The other turned back to the Peak and charged. Myra tried to follow the arrow’s path back through the mists, but the battlefield on the other side was a chaos. She had hoped the Wizard’s destruction would end the battle, but it seemed to have intensified as all survivors, no matter what side they fought on, hurried to the bridge.
She turned her attention back to Vlad and watched worriedly as he tried to open his eyes, and his face twisted in a grimace of pain. She wanted to comfort him but stayed her hand—she was done being kind to this monster. This was not good at all—the arrow tip might be metal, but the Prince still had wood inside hi
s heart. She watched his breathing accelerate and sweat bead on his brow, mingling with the falling rain. She remembered Armida telling her vampires did not sweat—something was wrong. Suddenly, he gasped, and his body stiffened and then relaxed as he exhaled sharply. His eyes fell shut and did not open again.
“Vlad?” Myra shook him, but there was no reply. Damn his stubbornness. He should have drunk my blood.
“Is he dead?”
Myra looked up, startled by Ila’s voice. She wanted to laugh and cry—finally a friendly face. Finally, someone who could help. “No. He’s alive.”
“Let me fix that,” Ila said and raised her sword.
“No, wait,” Myra cried and raised up a hand. “It wasn’t him who betrayed us. He helped.”
“So what?” Ila said. “We had an agreement. I told him the moment the Wizard is destroyed, I’d hunt him down and kill him.” She looked at the fiery hell on top of the Peak. “And the Wizard looks pretty destroyed.”
“Don’t,” Myra said. “He’s here because he was protecting me. And the Wizard is gone because Tristan destroyed it.”
Ila snorted and lowered her sword. “Pretty Boy destroyed the Wizard? I admit I didn’t see that coming. Whatever—if he recovers, he will keep killing humans, just as he once did. I knew him back in the Old World, and I know of the things he has done and will do. He cannot be allowed to live.”
“He will live,” Myra said and raised her gun, pointing it at Ila. “Please, don’t make me do this.”
Ila’s eyes widened. “Really? You’d shoot me to protect him? Whose side are you on?”
Myra’s hand was steady. “We’re all on the same side. The Wizard is gone, but the battle is not over. We’re still allies, and we need to remain together if we are to survive.”
“Oh, but the battle is over,” Ila said. “There is no guarantee that the clouds will stay in the sky, and soon everyone will run and hide. And, besides, he can no longer contribute to the fight.”
Myra’s heart jumped to her throat, but her finger stayed firm against the trigger. She could stand by and let this tale unfold, or she could finally take back her pen and write the story, for better or for worse. And if she had to write this tale in blood, then so be it.
Ila raised her sword once again, but before she could swing, she gasped in pain, staring in shock at the bullet wound in her chest.
“I’m sorry,” Myra whispered. Tears pricked at her eyes. “I am so, so sorry,” she went on saying, over and over again, as she ran her sword through the vampire’s stomach.
“Forgive me,” she said, as she caught Ila. “I won’t let anyone stake or behead you. Once this is over, I will take you to safety and make sure you recover. But I can’t let you kill the Prince.”
Myra laid Ila carefully on the wet stones, wincing at the blood that started pooling underneath her, mingling with the water. A raw cry pierced the mists, and she whirled around, heart pounding. Myra froze.
How was it possible? Tristan. How had he crossed the bridge so fast, especially with his fear of heights? Had she been so distracted by her confrontation with Ila? What if someone else had crossed the bridge instead, someone who meant harm? Unless…
Her heart dropped, and her innards twisted into a knot. Had Tristan been on the other side at all? She had assumed he had been the one to detonate the explosion, but it could have been anyone. Dust and soot covered his white clothes and pale face, turning to mud under the rain, but she saw no new wounds. And she knew that someone had betrayed them. First, she had thought it was Vlad, but what if it had been Tristan all along?
Tristan was cradling the Prince’s body, shivering like a dry leaf in the wind and speaking so fast his speech had become a continuous stream of undistinguishable words. His voice was rising and falling, blaming, denying, begging. “Not an ordinary vampire,” Myra distinguished among the unintelligible flow of words, and then “a god” and “my god,” and “a stake cannot kill a god.”
She looked at the bridge to make sure it was empty and returned her attention to Tristan. Even if he had betrayed them, he could not have wanted this, and that was a small comfort.
“Tristan,” she said sharply, but he ignored her, his speech only increasing in speed until she could not understand a single word. It took her a while to realize the vampire was now speaking in a different language.
“Tristan!” she cried. “It’s not wood. He lives! The arrow tip is metal! Metal! Not wood!” she said, over and over again.
Tristan raised his stricken face and fixed his large grey eyes on her, looking disturbingly like a lost child. “Metal?” he whispered.
“Yes, he’s alive,” Myra said. “He was even able to talk for a while. I offered him my blood, but he refused.”
Tristan’s demeanor changed in the blink of an eye—his startled wide eyes narrowed to slits, his lips stopped shaking and pressed together in a thin line, and his shoulders straightened. “That was your first mistake—you asked for permission.” With a quick strike, he made a deep cut across his wrist and brought his wound close to the Prince’s lips.
Vlad started to drink almost immediately, and Tristan almost sobbed in relief. Myra’s eyes darted to the bridge. It was empty, but small groups were still fighting on the other side. Yong was nowhere in sight. After a minute, the Prince stirred, and after a few blinks, his eyes opened completely.
“Tristan?” he coughed.
“Be quiet and drink,” the younger vampire said sternly. “I am mad enough at you already.”
To Myra’s surprise, Vlad looked properly chastised and did as he was told. Seriously? They were not arguing? Let’s see how long this peace lasts.
A movement on the bridge caught her eye, and she turned around, firing a shot. The bullet flew true, striking a vampire’s chest. A few more vampires walked on the bridge, and Myra fired again, watching in satisfaction as one enemy collapsed to his knees, clutching at his chest, while another fell into the deep chasm below. A smile emerged on her lips. Under different circumstances, this might have been fun. Her confidence was growing with every fallen enemy, but would it be enough?
She was the only one guarding the bridge now. Soon, the vampires would realize it would be easier to cross now that the Prince was wounded, and would come in bigger waves. Perhaps some would have the sense to hide in the caves around the Peak and wait for the night, but others would want to take their revenge on Vlad now that he was down. She could never hope to hold them off forever.
Myra unsheathed her knife. If she cut off the bridge, they would be safe. The only way for their enemies to reach them would be to climb the cliff-face, which would slow them down and give her the opportunity to stop them.
She walked to the bridge and raised her blade to strike, but Tristan’s eyes widened, and he shook his head vigorously. Myra met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. He pressed a finger against his lips, and his eyes darted towards the Prince, who was drinking from Tristan’s other arm, eyes closed.
So Tristan had a reason to want the bridge intact, and this reason had to be kept a secret from Vlad. What was that about? Tristan never kept secrets from his lord… or so she had thought. Had he indeed been the one to betray them? But why?
Myra’s grip on the knife’s handle tightened. She knew nothing for certain. Yes, there was a traitor, and it could have been Tristan. Or it could have been Vlad. Perhaps this whole thing had been a game for the Prince, going wrong at the last moment, but following his plan until then.
Her gaze darted to the Peak, where black smoke rose to the sky. The rain had done nothing to diminish the flames. A smile pulled at her lips. The time when her mistakes could doom mankind was past. The Wizard was gone, and humanity would emerge, no matter what she did and what choices she made. She took a deep breath as a burden lifted from her shoulders—whatever errors she made from now on, the consequences would be hers alone.
Her eyes met Tristan’s. Only one thing was certain—if she had to choose between supporting him or Vlad, she knew wh
ich side she had to take. Myra nodded and sheathed her knife.
Vlad opened his eyes. “What is…?”
“Nothing, my lord, keep drinking,” Tristan said, as he massaged the Prince’s forehead, smoothing away the lines of pain. “I know it hurts, but it will not hurt forever. No one will hurt you again. I am here now, and I will keep you safe.”
But that was not true, was it? Myra shuddered as she realized the implications of what had happened. After today, Vlad’s former subjects, Ila’s vampires, and all humans, whether from farms or free societies, would do everything possible to hunt down and kill the Prince. Neither Vlad nor Tristan would be even remotely close to safe again.
Myra turned to the bridge and fired another two shots, watching her enemies fall. It would be so easy just to cut it off and stop their progress, but if that was not an option, she would guard this bridge for as long as needed. Ila’s body caught her gaze—the blood had formed a large pool underneath her but had finally stopped flowing. Ila’s eyes stared at the stormy sky, full of accusation and betrayal.
“That’s it, drink.” Tristan kept talking. “Removing the arrow will be taxing. You will need all your strength before we start.”
Vlad’s gaze sharpened, and he raised his head, looking completely alert. “You will not remove the arrow.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Swarm of Flies
Myra rolled her eyes. And here it comes… She should have expected an argument; the peace had lasted far too long.
“What are you talking about?” Tristan said. “I know it will be hard and painful, but we better do it now.”
“I will lose too much blood if you remove the arrow,” the Prince said. “I will be useless in the fight.”
Tristan stared at him, gaping, his eyes wide. Myra tore her gaze from the bridge to glare at Vlad. “And you’ll be extremely useful with an arrow inside you. You mean to keep fighting?”