by K. A. Tucker
Without thinking, I shot a helix out, knocking the thing into the fire. “I’ll fry every phone line in this place, too,” I added spitefully.
“No worries.” Viggo grinned. “I’ll just go get her myself.”
It was my turn to smile. “How? You can’t get past the Merth.”
“Didn’t we just discuss this? We need to escape from this impending doom of which you speak.”
“Change of plans,” I shot back, not missing a beat.
“Sofie,” Mage warned in a low voice.
“No!” I snapped. “They’re not getting anywhere near her. I won’t allow it. Ever. They can sit in here and wait for whatever is going to happen. They’re more trouble to me out there than good.”
A faint chuckle drew everyone’s eyes to the frail little body crumpled on the floor. Her cheek resting in a pool of her blood, Ileana smiled and whispered, “Here they come!”
Alarm bells went off inside my head. Who was coming?
“I never did get along with my mother,” Ileana murmured, her eyes closing. “She never accepted me with my powers. It was the perfect trap. And now you’re finally all going to die.” As if a cover had suddenly been lifted, magic began radiating from her body—not as if she had just now cast a spell, but as if the spell had always been running and only now could I see the tiny coils—hers were mauve—dancing around. What exactly had she been masking, though?
A split second later, the walls of the library shook as an explosion in the atrium rocked the building. Bishop and Fiona dashed out to the atrium with all of us close behind, crashing through the magical sound barrier and the glass into a maelstrom of thick smoke and bits of burning building.
That didn’t concern me. What concerned me was the crowd of several hundred humans in dark clothing spilling through the gaping hole in the wall, all with those same dead eyes as the humans at the club. In their hands they carried machetes—nothing permanently damaging to us, but I had a feeling we weren’t the weapons’ intended targets. Sure enough, I watched them turn on each other and attack, hacking and swiping at one another, opening deep, bloody gashes in their flesh. In no time at all, rivers of red snaked over the cobblestones, too much to ignore, even for me. They were bait in a trap, meant to lure the vamps in, stop them from running or fighting intelligently. But to what end? Unless . . . My stomach turned in knots as I put two and two together. Viggo had led the real enemy right through our gates. Ileana’s wicked giggle replayed in my head. Here they come, she had said. She wasn’t talking about the Sentinel.
Bishop and Fiona tore off toward the crowd. My arms flew out to grab Caden and Amelie before they could follow. “Out of here—now.” Easier said than done; their eyes were morphing into hideous veined orbs. Mine likely matched theirs.
“We can kill them all, easily,” Caden growled, jerking toward them.
I tugged them back, hard. “Stop!”
“What are you doing?” Viggo hissed behind me. “Go on! Decimate them with your magic!”
“Them I can, yes. That’s the point—they’re a distraction.” I watched the battle unfold. The Ratheus vampires had taken the bait, flying onto their victims, oblivious to the stabs from the machetes as they fed, assuming they’d heal after they gorged. But they weren’t safe. Far from it.
“Here comes the cavalcade,” Mage murmured beside me, eyeing the door. She had figured it out as well. “The witches. We need to get out of here.”
“But, Fiona and Bishop!” Amelie cried, eyes on her two friends in the thick of it, unable to resist.
“I’ll get them.” In an instant, Mage was standing over a feeding Bishop. She wrenched him away and dragged him back to us. Distanced from the frenzy, Bishop appeared to snap out of the blood lust.
“We need to leave, Bishop,” I yelled over the noise. “The witches are coming.”
He nodded, eyes wide. “Fiona!” he bellowed.
“I’ll go and get—” Mage began, only to stop abruptly, her black eyes on the tunnel entrance. I turned.
Like a wall of magic, a row of twenty-two women materialized in the chaos, fire at the ready, hands raised, pointed.
“Fiona!” Bishop screamed.
It was too late. The witches aimed for the group of vampires closest to them, Fiona among them. Fire shot out, engulfing the group. Fiona disappeared in the flames.
“No!” Bishop and Amelie shrieked, fighting wildly to break free and run to her. Luckily Caden and Mage had iron-strong grips.
“We need to go. Now! Or we’ll be next,” Mage yelled as the witches’ attention moved on to the next cluster of vampires.
“We can’t use the last escape route—they may be waiting for us there. Take them to the underground garage,” I instructed.
“We can’t get down there,” Caden reminded me. “The Merth.”
Damn it! I had to break the spell. I had no time for anything else. “Go!”
Bishop was resisting, woeful eyes on the circle of fire where his love lay. “Bishop, we have to go!” Caden cried “She’s gone! We can’t lose you, too!”
“Go! Now!” I screamed and ran back into the library without a second glance. With a last look at Veronique’s portrait, I dove to Ileana’s side. She appeared to be sleeping peacefully, but I knew better. And I knew she didn’t need to protect her blood any longer. Running my hand along her neck, I grabbed hold of the chain and pulled.
Mortimer’s hand clamped over my wrist with a vise-like grip. I turned to see fear in his chocolate eyes, such a rare sight. “Help us.”
I gritted my teeth. They would die if they stayed here. They couldn’t die, for my sister’s sake. “She will be fine,” I promised. “You two won’t be.” I began a whispered chant to reverse the spell, a chant that only I knew, for a spell that responded to only my voice. The words would release all vampires from the confines of the Merth, including Viggo and Mortimer. In seconds, it was done. “You’re free. Get out of here.”
“Veronique!” Viggo cried from the doorway. “I won’t leave her!”
“Suit yourself.” I shook free of Mortimer’s hand. “When you smarten up, meet me at the Warehouse and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do.” The Warehouse was an old, abandoned building by the city docks, where one could often go for an easy late-night meal on one criminal or another. With that, I left them, running as fast as I could past the line of witches and toward the garage. I had no intention of meeting Viggo and Mortimer there.
8. The Tribe
My eyes flew open to find Ursula and the snowy mountain chalet gone, replaced by a canopy of trees in the foreground of a night sky and the monotonous hum of people chanting. The source of that chant lay about forty feet to my left: a group of fifty or so people encircling an enormous fire, their hands joined, their lean, scantily-clad bodies swaying from side to side. They repeated a low, garbled mantra over and over again as a man with a strange headpiece sitting outside of the circle pounded a rhythmic beat on his drum. I squinted at the thing on his head. It looked like a . . . tiger’s head?
A shout pulled my attention back toward the fire. This time I noticed the four tall wooden posts rising around it. My eyes drifted up their length, culminating in a platform-like structure at least fifteen feet above the fire on which sat a man wearing a large hat. It was dark, but I thought he was pointing at me.
Leo had transported me. Again.
“Evang . . . ”
The weak groan drew my eyes to a body lying on the sandy ground behind me. Julian. The bonfire cast just enough light to illuminate the dark stain forming on the front of his parka. “Julian!” I shrieked, dropping to my knees beside him. Leo had sent him with me to save him from Ursula, but by the looks of it, Leo had been too late. With the lightest touch, I slowly unzipped his winter jacket, afraid any movement would hurt him further. “Please don’t die!” I moaned.
I vaguely noticed that the incessant drumbeat and chanting had died, exchanged for gasps and words spurted in an odd tongue. I didn’t pay too muc
h attention, intent on seeing how badly Julian was wounded.
Evangeline, stand up, Max commanded in a flat tone.
A wave of relief washed over me. “Thank God you’re here, Max! Julian needs help.”
Stand up. Now, Max said a second time, now with an ominous undercurrent.
I ignored him, pulling Julian’s jacket back to see the deep gash between his rib bones. Blood ran freely. So much blood.
I felt the low rumble in my chest as Max growled. Too much blood. It was tempting a hungry Max. “Help him,” I cried meekly, knowing there was little hope. If only Sofie or Leo were here . . .
Something cold and sharp grazed my chin. I shifted to see a metal spearhead attached to a shaft that was a good seven feet long. Panic sparked in me. Leo wouldn’t send us somewhere dangerous, would he? My eyes drifted up the length of the spear, over the pair of clawed, dark-skinned hands that gripped it, up along a nude male torso, to finish at a set of jaundiced eyes, the whites so sickly yellow that they gleamed like glow-in-the-dark stickers. In hideousness they matched the decaying teeth and disfigured nose, multiple heavy gold rings stretching out both nostrils in opposite directions. I cowered at the man’s unsightliness. I wasn’t sure if I should even call him a man. What were they? Glancing left and right, I found the others surrounding us were equally repulsive.
The spearhead pushed up under my chin, digging into my flesh. Stand up, Max instructed, and this time I obeyed. Don’t let them touch you.
“I’m in no rush to let them do anything,” I mumbled, my attention flitting from one set of jaundiced eyes to the next.
The man who sat on top of the platform—whose hat was made of colorful peacock feathers, I now saw—barked out something in that strange tongue that I didn’t understand. A dozen spears were instantly leveled—most of them at Max, one at me. No one bothered with Julian. He was no threat to anyone.
“Wait!” I held my hands up in the most non-threatening manner I could. None of them moved. “What the hell do I say, Max?” I hissed.
I doubt it matters.
The man’s eyes darted to Max, then back to me, his eyes narrowing as if he understood our ability to communicate and he didn’t like it. He uttered another string of gibberish. One of the men lowered his spear and stepped forward, his arm outstretched toward Max.
Max’s teeth bared in response. A warning. The reaction was several spears to his back and legs. His cry of agony pierced the night air.
“No!” I cried, watching in horror as they forced my werebeast to the ground. I dove to wrap my arms protectively around his neck, bracing myself for a painful stab to my back. “Fight back, Max!” I whispered in his ear.
No. They’ll kill me.
Kill an immortal werebeast? Hopelessness washed over me. “Why would Leo send us here, Max?” I whispered, gripping the dog tightly and burying my face in his fur, sensing the crowd closing in on us.
The feather-capped man barked a word that sounded like an order. No one moved. Again, he barked.
He wants you to stand, Max translated.
“No! They may stab you again,” I moaned.
If you don’t, they will definitely stab the both of us. I like my odds better with you standing.
With that in mind, I scrambled to my feet. The leader descended from the platform and moved forward through the crowd, his sickly eyes scanning my face as if reading something on it. Suddenly he threw his arm out to the side, palm raised. A spear was placed in it.
I sucked in a mouthful of air, terrified.
Your necklace, Max whispered. Show it to him.
For a moment I didn’t move, too paralyzed with doubt. Then my hand flew to my neck to fish out the pendant. The abrupt movement caused a commotion in the group and spears rose. “Wait!” I exclaimed, holding my palms out again. Featherman shouted an order and the spears immediately dropped. Moving slowly this time, I reached back up to my coat and tugged the zipper down. Sliding my hand inside, I grabbed hold of the chain and pulled the dull black pendant out from under layers of winter clothes.
My breath caught as Featherman’s spear tip approached my chest. Without stepping any closer, he gently hooked the end of the spear around the chain and stretched the pendant toward him, his eyes narrowing as if to analyze it. With a look up at my face and back down, he nodded and mumbled something to himself.
Julian moaned then. Dropping the spear, Featherman turned to look down at the young dying man, then stooped to inspect the wound.
“We need to get him to a hospital,” I said without thinking. Taking in their loincloths and mud huts, I realized how absurd that statement was. Yet I couldn’t just let him die. “Help him, please.”
Featherman waved his hand in a circular motion, then pointed to Julian. The crowd immediately parted to allow in men and women holding long sticks with loops of rope attached at the ends. They each hooked one around Julian’s arm or leg without touching him. With surprising grace, they lifted Julian in unison, earning a gasp from him.
“Max, what are they doing?” I whispered anxiously as we watched them carry Julian toward the fire.
I don’t know. Honestly.
Something dug into my back. Turning, I found one of the tribesmen nudging us to follow with the blunt end of his spear. I obliged, walking hesitantly forward. When we were about fifteen feet away from one of the little huts where the bearers had stopped with Julian, another spear suddenly appeared to block our path. Close enough, they were saying.
Max and I watched in silence as a woman appeared from the hut, pulling on a pair of dark, elbow-length gloves as I imagined a surgeon would do in preparing for an operation. Other tribeswomen followed behind her with wooden trays holding various objects—bowls, leaves, ominous-looking tools. The procession wordlessly circled Julian, whose eyes remained closed.
The woman with the gloves leaned toward Julian, a sharp object gripped in her hand. “Oh my God, Max!” I whispered, grabbing a fistful of Max’s fur and squeezing. It earned a small grunt from him but I didn’t care. What was she going to do to Julian?
We watched as she stretched the collar of Julian’s shirt away from his neck with one hand. She then pulled the sharp object along the material, slicing it in half and spreading the sides open to reveal his chest and the worrying gash. I breathed the tiniest sigh of relief.
Next she took a wooden spoon and bowl from a tray, dipped the spoon into the bowl, and began gently slathering a pale gray, mud-like paste over the wound. When the area was completely covered, she dropped the tools and knelt down beside him to smooth over the application with her hand. Julian’s face tightened briefly in pain, but no noise escaped him.
“Max!” I hissed. “What are they doing?”
I don’t know, but as long as they don’t touch him with their skin, they’re likely trying to help.
“What’s wrong with their skin?” I took a few steps closer, but a spear swung toward me in warning. I cautiously backed up again.
They’re called Ambulans Mortem. Walking Death.
“Why are they called . . . that?” I faltered, watching as the four women assisting Julian’s nursemaid joined hands around them and began chanting.
Their touch is instant death to all—humans, vampires, werebeasts. Anyone except their own tribe. And they have no qualms about using it. The death tribe hates our kind—hates all kinds, except their own.
“Just a single touch?” I repeated slowly, uncomprehending.
Contact with their skin. Yes.
My eyes widened. “Where did they come from?”
Sofie made them. Accidentally. She was supposed to kill them years ago, but decided not to. I think they fascinated her. She kept them hidden from Viggo, of course, who would have sent a nuke here if he had known she was crazy enough to keep them alive.
“How on Earth does someone ‘accidentally’ create something like that?” I wondered aloud.
It’s that Fates magic. I don’t know . . . Sofie can explain it to you one day.
Another, more concerning thought popped into my head. “Why on earth would Leo send us to these people?”
Because Sofie told him to, if the need ever arose. Of course she expected that it would involve Viggo finding you . . . It’s probably the safest place for you to be right now. No vampire or sorceress in their right mind will enter these lands. Sorcerous magic doesn’t work around them. They’re like a black hole for the powers of vampires and witches. An anti-magic. They have their own kind of magic.
“But . . . ” I was struggling with all of this. “How did she know they wouldn’t kill me?”
Well . . . she didn’t, for sure. She created them, so they show some deference to her. But it only goes so far. Several years ago, she approached them with an offer in exchange for help, if this day should ever arise. That pendant was the signal. Max chuckled. That woman has more escape routes than an eel.
“And of course you knew this all along,” I said through gritted teeth.
There was no need to scare you. I never thought we’d end up here.
I angrily shook my head, but now was not the time to scold Max over his continuing duplicity. I needed information. “What did she offer them?” I whispered.
Tigers.
I screwed my face up. “What?”
Tigers. You know: rawr.
“But . . . ” Thinking about the headdress that drummer wore, I didn’t finish.
For some reason, tigers are immune to their touch. They think the giant fur balls are gifts from their fire god, so they surround themselves with tigers.
My eyes roamed the clearing, looking for the presence of these animals. “I don’t see any.”
Oh, they’re there. Look harder.Behind the huts.
I followed his direction, squinting into the shadows. There. A pair of glowing feline eyes. A few feet away, I saw another set. And another. Just beyond the huts, a ring of tigers surrounded us, watching. A shiver ran down my spine.
A male scream whipped my head from the tigers to Julian, now conscious, his teeth bared as he struggled to break free from the constraints around his wrists and ankles as the gloved woman inserted several bone-colored needles into his wound. The tribesmen holding Julian leaned in with their weight on the long poles, tightening their grip, securing Julian’s limbs before he accidentally grazed a bare leg. Now unable to move, he seethed, face contorted with pain as he watched the woman accept a steaming bowl of something. Leaning forward, she poured the hot clear liquid over his wound. Julian roared in agony.