Blood Feud

by Alyxandra Harvey

  She walked the entire night and didn’t stop even when dawn leaked through the clouds. Her feet and her calves ached and she wasn’t convinced she’d ever get the feeling back in the tip of her nose. She kept walking through the pain, through the cold wind and the growling emptiness in her belly. She hid in the bushes when she heard the sound of wagon wheels, not trusting anyone enough to beg a lift on the back of a cart. She might blend with her wool cloak and simple gray dress, but she knew her accent was too cultured, too obviously aristocratic, and that alone might make her a target.

  The closer she got to Paris, the more clogged the road became, mostly with people fleeing to the countryside. Only radicals and adventurers and madmen went toward the city these days. She pulled her hood over her hair and lowered her eyes, keeping to the trees. Eventually they thinned to ragged bushes and then to fields and then she was on the outskirts of the city and everything was cobblestones and gray roofs in the winter sunlight. She’d been walking for three days with very little sleep and only frozen creek water to melt and drink. Her head swam and she felt as if she had a fever: everything was too bright or too dull, too sharp or too soft.

  She stopped long enough to buy a meal and a cup of strong coffee to fortify herself. She huddled in her cloak, trying not to stare at everyone and everything. Smaller houses crowded together gave way to buildings, towering high and made of stone the color of butter. The river Seine meandered through the city, past the Tuileries, where the king had once lived, before they’d cut off his head. Isabeau shivered. She couldn’t think of it right now. If she gave in to the grief and the fear she might never move again.

  She forced herself to her feet and followed the river. The water churned under a thick, broken layer of ice. She rubbed her hands together to warm them, being careful not to catch anyone’s eye. Men swaggered in groups drinking coffee and distributing pamphlets while women with cockades pinned to their bonnets stood on the corners talking. Their faces were serious, fired with purpose. Isabeau could smell smoke lingering and saw piles of burned garbage from riots and the fighting that took over the streets at night. She’d heard her father speak of it more and more, especially last autumn, when so many had been massacred.

  She’d heard the guillotine had been set up in one of the city squares but she didn’t know where it was. Her parents hadn’t been to their Paris house since the Christmas she was eleven. She remembered passing the opera house in the carriage and the snow falling in the streets. She could walk in circles and never find her way.

  She finally noticed that the crowds seemed to be heading in the same direction. She paused behind a group of women with chapped hands, smoking under an unlit streetlight. Taking her courage in both hands she approached them slowly.

  “Pardon, madame?”

  One of the women whipped her head around to glare. “Citoyenne,” she corrected darkly.

  Isabeau swallowed. “Pardon, citoyenne. Could you tell me how to find La Place de la Concorde?”

  The woman nodded. “Visiting la louisette, are you?” When Isabeau looked at her blankly she elaborated. “The guillotine.”

  “Oh. Um, yes.”

  “Not from here, are you?”

  Isabeau backed away a step, wondering if she should dart into the safety of the maze of alleyways. “Yes, I am.”

  The woman shook her head, not unkindly. “Down this street and turn right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “If you hurry, you’ll catch the last execution. Just follow the crowds and the noise. Robespierre got himself a fat duke and duchess.” Her companions nodded smugly. One of them spat in the gutter.

  Isabeau’s stomach dropped like a stone. She broke into a run, dodging cafe tables and barking dogs and carts trundling slowly in the street. She could hear a loud cheer from several streets over, even with the pounding of her pulse in her ears. The cobblestones were slicked with ice and she slipped, crashing into a pillar of a large building. She pushed herself up, looking wildly about. All the buildings looked the same, stone and tall windows, pillars and pavement. She gagged on her frantic breath. Another cheer sounded, louder this time. She ran again, following.

  She made it into the cacophony of the square just as the guillotine fell, the blade gleaming in the sun. There was a pause of silence and then more shouts. The ground seemed to shake with all the noise and stamping feet. The pressure of the noise made her nauseous. She’d never seen so many people in her life. There were guards with bayonets, hundreds of citoyens and citoyennes, children, urchins and pickpockets, and rouge-cheeked prostitutes.

  Isabeau pushed through the crowd, heedless of the feet she stepped on or the bored curses flung her way. She struggled against the wall of people toward the dais in the center of the square. It was warm with so many bodies and the fires lit in braziers. At the very front, sitting in a row by the tall strange machine that was the guillotine were the tricoteuses, the women who sat and knit as the heads fell in the basket in front of them. If they sat too close, blood splattered them. They’d long ago figured out the exact perfect distance. Isabeau could hear their needles clicking as she pushed between them.

  Just in time for the blade to drop a second time.

  Her father’s head rolled into a large basket, landing lip to lip with the decapitated head of her mother. Their long hair tangled together. Blood seeped through the wicker, stained the wood of the dais.

  Isabeau’s shrieks were drowned out by the enthusiastic spectators. She screamed herself hoarse and then felt herself falling and didn’t even try to stop her head from cracking on the cold cobblestones.

  CHAPTER 12

  LOGAN

  I wasn’t about to let Isabeau go off without me.

  I didn’t care how long she’d known Magda, didn’t even care that she was going back home to the tribe she loved. Her shield had cracked and I couldn’t forget the glimpse I’d seen. And I hadn’t been feeding her a cheap line when I’d told her I felt as if we already knew each other. Something in me recognized something in her.

  But I wasn’t stupid.

  I knew she’d never admit to it—and not only because I was a Drake and royalty.

  It still felt weird to think of myself as royalty. I was just one of many Drake boys with a handsome face and a smart mouth. I didn’t stand out particularly; I didn’t have Connor’s knack for computers, Quinn’s right hook, or Marcus’s gift for negotiation. I just dressed better.

  “Can I assume you’re not trying to kill me?” I asked as we ran on, leaving the dog’s paw behind.

  “I didn’t make that charm,” Isabeau said. “But I damn well want to know who’s trying to muddy my name.”

  “And kill me,” I reminded her dryly.

  She looked remote and cool, but I could see the strain of worry under her polite mask. I’d never known anyone more self-contained than she was, running with her giant dog loping at her side, her sword strapped to her back. Magda sent me another glare, which I ignored. Someone materialized at my side.

  “Jen, stay here,” I told her. The last thing we needed was a hothead like her barging into Hound territory. She was armed to the teeth, stakes lining the leather strap that fit tight between her breasts, and there were daggers on her belt.

  “Someone has to watch your back,” she said stubbornly.

  “I’ll be fine,” I insisted, annoyed. It wasn’t like I was Solange with some deranged vampire lusting after me, or a little kid. I could take care of myself. I was eighteen years old, for Christ’s sake.

  “You’re royalty,” she told me, following me out into the dark forest. “I’m a royal guard.”

  I sighed irritably. I didn’t have time to charm her or to shake her loose.

  “Fine,” I snapped. “But we’ll be guests of the Hounds, so don’t pick a fight.”

  “As long as they don’t start anything, I won’t either.”

  “I need your promise.”

  Her blue eyes sparked. “You have it.”

  “Less talking,”
Isabeau called back to us. “More running.”

  She was shooting through the woods like a star, her skin pale and glowing faintly when the moonlight found its way through the thick leaves. She had no idea how beautiful she looked, even grim and deadly as she was right now.

  And I probably shouldn’t be watching her ass quite so carefully but I couldn’t help myself.

  The forest went quiet at our approach. Five vampires moving quickly will silence even the cicadas. An owl rustled in a tree overhead but didn’t fly away. I didn’t know what to expect in the Hounds’ caves. No one had set foot there uninvited in nearly a century even when they were backup caves and not the main residence. I’d been hearing stories about the savage Hounds since I was little. Isabeau had been a surprise to all of us. So had Finn, come to think of it, since he wasn’t technically a Hound at all. He’d chosen to ally himself with them and they’d let him. I wasn’t sure which part was more rare.

  We stayed close to the mountain, skirting the huge pine trees. The wind was warm, even here. August was nearly finished, soon the leaves would change colors and fall away. It made it harder to stay undetected in the forest, but not impossible.

  “Do you smell something?” Magda asked suddenly, slowing to a stop and frowning. She sniffed the air like a suspicious cat. Her expression went flat. “Blood.”

  My nostrils flared. Definitely blood. A lot of it. Despite the situation, my stomach grumbled. My fangs extended instinctively.

  “And something else,” I added, hearing a soft tinkling sound, like ice in a glass. “Did anybody hear that?”

  Isabeau nodded grimly. I shifted to be closer to her, even though Magda tried to block me. She acted like I was a threat, like I was planning to stake Isabeau when she wasn’t looking. As if I ever would, and as if Isabeau couldn’t stop me. I don’t know what it said about me that it kind of turned me on that she could probably kick my ass if she wanted to. She might look like a porcelain doll, but I knew from experience that she was tough as iron nails. I’d have to find a nicer way of telling her that. I didn’t think she was used to compliments. I may as well start getting her comfortable with it, because I planned to compliment her a lot. Just as soon as she stopped looking at me like she was trying to figure out what I really wanted.

  Which was her. Just her.

  I nearly groaned out loud. Having an aunt who’d slept with Byron and insisted we read all the Romantic poets had evidently addled my brain. My brothers would never let me live it down if they found out I’d fallen in love with a Hound princess after a single night without even kissing her. Like I had any intention of telling them. You didn’t survive five older brothers and a younger one by running your mouth off about stuff like that. Basic survival skill.

  We crept around a copse of stunted oaks and into a narrow clearing. It was the same one where we’d eavesdropped on the wounded Host after Solange received Montmartre’s “gift.” That couldn’t be a coincidence. I saw the flicker of recognition on Isabeau’s face.

  But we didn’t have time to discuss it.

  At first, none of us knew what to say. I’d never seen anything like it. The smell of blood was so strong I actually had to cover my nose until I got used to it. The muscles in the back of my neck tensed up.

  The long grass was undisturbed, dotted with wildflowers. The moon made everything silver, as if it were wet. There were no bodies, no drained humans or animals, no sign of struggle.

  Just open uncorked bottles everywhere, dangling from string and wire from the branches. The sound I’d heard was the clinking of glass touching glass when the breeze rattled the macabre wind chimes. There were dozens of them.

  “What the hell is this?” Jen muttered.

  Every single one, from green wine bottles to jam jars, were filled to the rim with blood. Fresh, warm blood. All of our fangs were out now, Isabeau’s double ones, even Finn’s ancient opal-sharp ones. I took a step closer to a juice bottle, swallowing thickly. I could all but taste it. Jen’s hand slapped my arm, forcing me back.

  “Could be poisoned,” she said.

  She was right. We all froze. Isabeau turned a slow circle on her heel.

  “It smells familiar, but it’s not poisoned,” she said finally, a kind of horrified awe in her French voice.

  “It’s not?” I echoed.

  She shook her head. “It’s a trap,” she said. “Like a bowl of sugar water to draw the bees away from the kitchen.”

  I frowned. “A trap for who? Us?”

  “Oui.” She reached for her sword just as Charlemagne growled in the back of his throat.

  Hel-Blar.

  They were everywhere. We would have smelled them if it hadn’t been for the blood-saturated air around us. They had a very distinctive stench: rot and mildew and mushrooms. Their blue-tinted skin made them look bruised. Every single tooth in their mouth was a fang, sharpened to a needle’s edge. And their bite was contagious.

  And they were coming at us through the trees like spring rivers rushing into the same lake, like deadly blue beetles on fallen fruit.

  Hell if I was going to be some ripe piece of apple waiting to be eaten.

  “Shit.” I reached for one of my daggers. I hadn’t stopped to grab a sword, which was stupid. I’d thought a dagger and a handful of stakes would be enough.

  Really stupid.

  There was no sense in running since there wasn’t a clear path out of the meadow. We could hear them growling and hissing, spitting like rabid animals. It made my jaw clench tight. The blood wasn’t just tempting them the way it tempted us, it was driving them mad.

  “Someone wanted them to attack us,” I snapped at the others. “Someone knew we’d be coming this way.”

  “Host,” Isabeau agreed in a voice like winter in the steppes. “Whoever attacked Kala must have set this up.”

  I leaped toward her, landing behind her to guard her back before the Hel-Blar reached us. She shot me a half-surprised, half-grateful glance. The moon glinted on her sword and the chain mail sewn into the leather of her tunic, over her heart.

  “Stay close,” I told her.

  She snorted. “I have a sword and you have a butter knife. Staying close is about your only option.”

  And then there really wasn’t any more time for witty banter.

  The unnerving sound the air made as it sliced around them made me understand the old superstitions about vampires turning into bats. I bared my fangs. I had every intention of plucking them right out of the sky if I had to. The first wave hit hard, but at least half of their numbers were distracted by the bottles swinging over our heads. They drained them, gulping frantically as if they were frat boys at a kegger. Blood ran down their chins, dripped into the flowers. It was only a very brief moment though and then they all wanted the kill and wouldn’t be deterred by bottles of cow blood.

  The fight was fast and feral. We had skill on our side but we were outnumbered. And the Hel-Blar had battle frenzy down to an art. I killed one before he could get too close, but lost my stake in the long grass. He was too far for me to reclaim my weapon without leaving Isabeau unguarded. I had two more stakes.

  “Shit, don’t be a martyr,” Jen yelled at me through her teeth. She tossed me one of her swords. She still had one in her hand and one at her hip.

  “Thanks!” I caught it, grinning. I felt better already. I leaped over the thrust of a rusty rapier.

  “Royal plums for the picking,” one of them sneered. An empty bottle crunched under his boot. “Is this the way you decorate for your fancy parties?”

  So they hadn’t been sent after all, only lured and manipulated without their knowledge.

  That was something to think about.

  A stake grazed my left shoulder, leaving a raw burn in its wake.

  Later.

  “Damn it, Logan,” Isabeau shouted. “Pay attention. Franchement,” she added in French. I could tell by the tone that it wasn’t a lover’s endearment.

  She swung hard and blocked the attack of a
screeching Hel-Blar. His arm, now unattached, sailed through the air and landed with a thud. It was still clutching a long stake soaked in poison. I could smell it, like salt and iron and rust. I kicked it aside.

  Jen had dispatched two of them and Magda was shrieking back at one like a psychotic banshee. She might look like a flower fairy but she had wicked good aim. Dust puffed in front of her and she turned to the next one. Jen was nearby, hacking away with deadly arrogance in every swing.

  A Hel-Blar thrust her dagger at me. I kicked out, snapping her wrist. The knife tumbled and she howled, then leaped at my head. We sprawled on the ground. A bottle snapped from its tether and landed by my head. Blood seeped into the ground. The Hel-Blar bared her fangs. They gleamed like needles. I cracked my elbow under her jaw and she nearly bit her tongue off. Saliva hit my neck. I fought harder until I managed to get my leg up enough to dislodge her. She hit the tree beside us and my stake dug into her papery heart before she could recover. She crumpled.

  I leaped to my feet. Later, I’d feel bad I’d had to kill her. Right now, my mother’s training was too strong, stronger even than the gentlemanly courtesies the rest of my family had instilled. I might wear frock coats and recite poetry better than sports stats but I knew the rules: you fought, you survived. And Hel-Blar took no prisoners.

  Jen was proof of that.

  I had time only to turn and the Hel-Blar she’d been fighting took her legs out from under her and buried the sharpened end of a staff in her chest.

  “Son of a bitch,” I yelled, using Jen’s borrowed sword to cleave his head right off his shoulders. Then I stabbed him in the heart, pushing through his rib cage. But Jen was reduced to gray ash in a cup of primrose petals and clothes patterned with the Drake crest. I couldn’t even stop to mourn her or hate myself for being the reason she was here in the first place.

  Isabeau was tiring. I could see it in the arc of her sword arm, still deadly but infinitesimally slower. Magda was limping, holding herself up on a stolen broadsword, her hair matted with blood. We couldn’t keep this up much longer.