Her grin turned to a smile. She struck again, this time seemingly hitting the shield intentionally, though still hard enough for him to dig his heels into the dirt. “My family were servants in the Temple of the Setting Divine in Sandgerði.”
Marius’s brows rose. “Iceland?”
“I was born there.” Her lips went tight, the smile fading from her eyes as she struck the shield again, jabbed, then recovered and jabbed again before he could prepare himself, striking his side once more. “Are you going to fight me or just stand there while I hit you?”
He ignored her. “What happened to them? Your family.”
She swung the spear over her head and lunged, giving him less than a second to save his own throat. He parried with his sword and followed through, twisting downward as he pressed her, leaving a long scrape on the spear’s shaft. With only another second before she inevitably recovered, he side-stepped her and lashed out with his shield, bashing her shoulder blade.
Ynga staggered forward a step before pivoting and jabbing. “They were killed.”
He parried again and riposted, the dull end of his sword making light contact with her ribs. If he’d hit her a little harder, he might have knocked her off balance or bruised her, but he’d rather hear the rest of her story. “I’m sorry.” What else was there to say?
“I was only a child. The temple was sacked, and I was taken for a prize,” she said, lining herself up again and looking him directly in the eyes. Hers were arctic. “I was brought here as a thrall.”
Marius looked between her stare and the tip of her spear. No wonder she would want to kill the Gloaming. He paused, lining his shield up and retreating half a step. “What did you do?”
“I killed the patriarch”—she aimed the spear downward, going for his kneecaps—“and murdered his wife and children in their beds.”
Thrown off by her frankness, he could do nothing but retreat. The tip of her spear hit the dirt, and there was silence between them as she lined herself up again.
Marius considered her for a moment before asking, “Was that fair?” Killing the man who’d kept her, certainly—no one could argue against that. But the children? He didn’t know the answer, himself; he wondered what she thought.
Ynga studied him right back. Her expression cleared, her shoulders relaxed; she straightened her posture. “Was it fair? Was it honest, or honorable? No.” She tipped her chin up. “But it was justice.”
Marius straightened up, too, and lowered his shield.
“Why don’t we switch?” she suggested, passing him to grab a shield of her own. The courtyard was silent. Their spectators had gone away.
With a nod, he switched positions with her. They sparred like that for a while, Ynga keeping him on his toes with capable ripostes, showing him no mercy. He’d have to see her in an actual battle, he thought, but if his father ever elected her to become a vivid, Marius would be honored to fight beside her.
But he was having to work twice as hard against her attacks with only one sword arm; for every thrust he dodged, she landed two. It took all his will not to summon his shield of light. His strikes became harder, less focused. She parried one, pressed the blade, and the frustration within him burned.
He lunged forward with his right arm. With a hard clang, the wolf’s head at the end of his wrist connected with the iron banding of Ynga’s shield.
The wood splintered as the wolf’s steel teeth and snout dug into it; the punch reverberated through the shield and left Ynga’s body shaking. She retreated.
Marius breathed hard, realigning himself.
At length, he said, “The Gloaming killed my mother, too.”
Ynga raised her shield and peered at him in response.
“There was a battle in the wilderness surrounding a runepriest monastery. The Gloaming outnumbered our forces ten to one at least, and my father called for a retreat into the monastery, where they would at least have the high ground.” Marius feinted upward and slashed at her knees when he saw his opening, the blade panging dully against her armor. “They stayed like that for a day and a half, firing on any Gloaming troops that approached. They anticipated a stalemate, that the Gloaming would retreat.”
Ynga blocked another strike with her shield, and used the momentum to follow through, pressing the blade and bashing the shield into Marius’s wrist.
He faltered and nearly dropped his sword, but recovered quickly. “The Gloaming found a way in to the monastery keep through an abandoned drainage tunnel, and they sent an assassin. My mother was guarding the runepriests’ relic room, keeping the hidden apprentices calm.” His lip curled. “They murdered her before she even had the chance to summon her bow.”
His blood heated, and he reared back before thrusting forward. Ynga barely held her shield up in time to block his onslaught. He couldn’t remember his mother—he’d been so young when she died—but they had murdered her. The assassin hadn’t even granted her the dignity of one last battle, had probably not even looked her in the face when they’d done it.
Another furious onslaught, both with sword and fist, and he grumbled, “They killed all the apprentices and priests. Nearly killed my father.”
He could see it in his mind’s eye: a shadowy revenant driving its poisoned blade into his mother’s back, grabbing her by the nape of the neck and holding her close, then tossing her to the side.
The sword in his hand spat yellow embers. Marius snarled, reeling back before slashing with all his might at the shield in front of him.
Sparks flew, scorching the surface. The blade glowed as it dug into the wood. He wrenched it out, spun it easily in his hand, and turned; gripping the sword in reverse, he brought it down.
It whistled with power as it thrust through the air, then screeched as it found its home deep in the wood of the shield.
“Marius!”
Oh. He let go of the sword and staggered back, dazed. The sword stayed in the shield, still sizzling. Behind it, Ynga’s terrified face.
There was only the high-pitched hissing of the blade as Ynga gripped it and yanked it out. He had broken the shield—torn a huge, splintered hole through it. And almost through her as well.
She glared at him. Then she dropped the sword and shield at his feet. A last breath of ember and smoke rose from it and died. Between her teeth, she ground out, “I didn’t kill your mother.”
Marius took a few steps back.
Then he turned and ran from the cloister garden.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cal’s fist tightened around his glass of Scotch as the mellow tune from the stage filled the dark bar. The bass flowed through the building like a heartbeat, with Mercy’s soft, low voice accompanying it like the hiss of blood through veins.
For the first time in a while, he felt like he was in the gullet of a beast waiting to swallow him whole.
Leave it to Edie to work in a vampire’s den without even knowing it. At least it didn’t seem to be Gloaming-owned. Too many uneaten humans, not enough blood-fueled orgies, not a thrall in sight. But vampire-friendly, for sure. The pretty, platinum-haired one—a guy or a lady? Eh, it didn’t matter to Cal—at the bar had been flashing him nervous looks ever since he’d set foot inside.
Tracking Edie’s friend through the city had been one thing. She’d gone all over, furiously trying to blow off steam, and had led him on a winding chase through the shopping district and some hippie outdoor market before finally heading to Nocturnem with the setting sun.
This was much easier. She was mostly just in one place: on stage. And when she wasn’t, he had a view of the exit. And a glass of fancy Scotch, which was a bonus.
Mercy didn’t seem aware that a good two-thirds of her coworkers were vampires, either. He wondered if it was a human thing or a stupid thing, though more often than not, the two went hand-in-hand. They could create the fucking Internet out of air and glass, strap flimsy metal together with a lick and a promise and send it into space, but no way vampires could exist, right?
A particularly bassy note from a nearby speaker sent ripples through his Scotch, and he raised the glass to his ruined lips, throwing it back in one go. He had to admit ... as ridiculous as Mercy had looked trying to manhandle him a few hours ago, she was in her element here. Maybe could be mistaken for a vampire, too, if her scent didn’t scream human. Under the hazy red and blue lights, her velvety black dress glittered like rainwater over fresh tarmac.
She was singing a particularly overwrought cover of U2’s “Wake Up Dead Man,” cradling the mic in both hands as her breathy voice entwined with the music. That sound, combined with the song itself, made Cal’s jaw clench. If things were different, maybe....
Or maybe what? He wasn’t in Vegas anymore. He wasn’t free. Probably, he never had been.
The revenant glanced around the room for a No Smoking sign. There were hookahs on some of the tables, so one cigarette wouldn’t do much harm, would it? Besides, he doubted anyone could see him, tucked away in an alcove booth, sandwiched between two ugly-ass wicker mannequins. Maybe he’d do the owners a favor and catch one on fire.
He took out a nearly-empty pack (Jesus, this past week he’d been smoking like it was going out of style; he’d only bought this one a couple hours ago) and lit one up. As soon as the smoked curled around his face, a wave of calm came rolling in.
Oh, well. Wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it. He’d been scraping off the top of Holloway’s stashed fortune for ten years and had barely made a dent. Guess it helped when you didn’t have to eat and didn’t need a place to sleep. Maybe the right thing to do would have been to tell Edie she was filthy rich as soon as he’d met her. Maybe there were a lot of things he should tell her.
For now, he’d play it close to the vest.
God, this was a fucking wreck. How had he let himself get pulled into this again? What the hell had he done for himself, if he still came running to a Holloway at the drop of a hat?
No. He hadn’t fucking done that. He had to keep reminding himself of that. Sure, he’d dropped everything to come running clear across the country—but only to put her down.
And then … turned out she needed him. She’d definitely be dead if it wasn’t for him.
But that shit was in Astrid’s hands now. He could leave now, get away with Ghost and the cash and forget about all this again. Whatever was coming—whatever fuckin’ beef the Aurora and Gloaming had with each other—none of it was Cal’s responsibility. None of it.
He hadn’t asked for any of this bullshit.
Neither did the girl. The thought crossed his mind like a snake weaving through tall grass, darting between patches to avoid being seen. It was all he could do not to smash his glass down on the glossy black table. Fuck the girl!
“You okay, darling?”
The sound of liquid being poured and the feel of coolness between his fingers registered. Someone was refilling his Scotch. Cal’s eyes darted upward, and his shoulders hunched—a reflex he thought he’d gotten rid of in Vegas. No one had made him feel small in ten goddamn years.
Being back here, unearthing all that shit, had changed things. It wasn’t even the girl’s fault; there was nothing she could do to stop it. But that didn’t make him feel any less fucked up.
When he looked up to tell the stranger to go away, his eyes met with a pair of perfectly round tits squeezed into a red leather sweetheart top. Whoa. So his Scotch-fairy was taller than he’d assumed. He met her eyes this time, and her easy smirk. Her full lips were painted in a black to purple to red ombre, and her pin-straight hair hung around her shoulders, sleek like the hood of a black Trans Am.
Vampire. And not a fucking subtle one, either.
“What?” he grunted, pulling his Scotch glass closer.
The woman seemed unperturbed by his harsh tone, and set down the crystal decanter she’d been holding. She leaned in, inky locks slithering over her moony white shoulders. “You just look troubled. May I sit with you?”
When it came to knocking boots, vampires and zombies went together like peanut butter and jelly. He’d had plenty of time to figure this stuff out. Revenants needed fresh blood in their system to get the “plumbing” working, and vampires had plenty to spare. The human ones, anyway—Cal knew next to nothing about the elves. In Vegas, he’d dated vampires pretty much exclusively. No way he was going to lie to a clueless human about what he was—both because it was a pain in the ass and because it was a fucking scumbag thing to do.
Maybe this vamp could smell it on him.
“Do what you want,” he mumbled at the rim of his glass, knocking back another mouthful. Best to be cautious. He was supposed to be watching out for Mercy, anyway.
The vampire’s black eyes followed the motion. A pleased smile graced her face as she slid into the booth next to him, her leather dress whispering softly against the booth’s upholstery. As she came close, her thigh touching his, Cal tensed.
On another night, in another place, she’d have his attention; they’d chat, maybe he’d buy her a drink, see where it went from there. But now, here, in this godforsaken fucking city, his brain was so far from that place.
Maybe his balls had fallen off somewhere between Nevada and Massachusetts.
He kept his eyes fixed on the stage, trying not to notice that the vampire was seriously starting to snuggle up to him.
“My name is Scarlet,” she said.
Of course it was. “Yeah?”
“What’s yours?”
It had been ten years, and this was a decent-sized city. She probably wouldn’t recognize his name. “Cal,” he replied around the filter of his cigarette, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.
She just smiled. Okay, good—so she didn’t know who he was. Or, if she did, she was a great actress.
“You’re new in town,” she observed, and leaned on him more heavily, nestling her arm up against his and putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Am I?”
“I don’t know your scent. And there aren’t many handsome revenants around here, you know….”
“Right.” He ashed his cigarette into his now-empty glass. If she worked here, she clearly didn’t give a shit that he was smoking, so there was that, at least.
They sat in blessed silence for a while. Mercy finished her set and mumbled her thanks into the microphone. Who knew how long it would take her to chat and change, but Cal fixed his eyes on the employees-only area. As tedious as tailing her was, he didn’t want her coming face to face with Fiskbein. Talk about a disaster waiting to happen. The fucking guppy needed to go, shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but until Astrid told Edie as much—
“Can I see?” Scarlet asked suddenly, raising a hand to his hair. She stroked her fingers through what, to her, must look like dark locks; in reality, she was barely brushing the few patchy bits of hair he still had left on his scalp.
Cal shot her a look of warning at the touch. When she pulled back—slightly—he asked, “What?”
“You.” She wrinkled her nose, still grinning. “I want to see the real you, darling.”
So she was one of those freaks. The only way to scare those types off was to give them what they wanted until they realized they didn’t really want it at all. Without dropping the glamour completely, Cal weakened it. Any humans watching probably wouldn’t notice anything.
She certainly did, though. Although her expression was closed, he could see her gaze shift in the low light, her grin fade slightly.
In response, he flashed a terrible grin back at her, leathery skin protesting against the sudden strain. “Careful what you wish for, sister.”
But beyond her flinch, Scarlet seemed undaunted. She leaned more heavily into him, sliding a cold hand under his arm, over his chest; with her free arm, she linked their elbows and squeezed. It felt like a snake tightening around its prey.
Strangely, the feeling spread to his chest. As he glanced at the stage, he noticed that the lights seemed overblown and foggy. Eyes watering….
&
nbsp; Something was wrong. Vampire mojo usually didn’t work on him. He only had one master, after all, he thought bitterly.
“I gotta go,” he slurred, feeling genuinely drunk for the first time in … as long as he could remember, actually. He could wait for Mercy outside.
In vain, he strained against Scarlet’s grip, but he felt weak; his brain started to feel heavy, and a wave of intense heat and nausea hit him a second later, causing him to shudder.
He glanced at the empty glass of Scotch.
Scarlet was saying something to him—pleading with him to stay, he thought, though he barely listened as he thrust his way out of the booth, practically dragging her along. She finally relented and let him go.
“I gotta go,” he repeated. He hadn’t been watching when she poured his drink. And after that, he’d been looking at the stage…. What the fuck? “I gotta go, babe.”
“Of course.” Her voice came through with startling clarity, but her tone was so cold.
The floor seemed a lot closer now. Pressure on his wrists, the ridges of carpet under his fingers. A gray haze seemed to replace most conscious thought. Gotta lay my head down. Just for a second. Gotta make it stop spinning.
The fucking bitch….
All breath left Cal’s lungs as he saw, across the room, Mercy heading toward the exit. Then everything was gray.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Edie came out of the other side of the portal shaking like a leaf, her fingers knotted so tightly in the spectral wolf’s bloodied fur that her knuckles had gone white. She hadn’t thought to ask, before, how Satara had managed to get from Shipshaven to Maine. The answer was Astrid’s spectral, portal-hopping wolf, a thing every valkyrie apparently had. Satara had only to blow a tiny glass whistle to call it and go wherever she wanted.
Satara, sitting in front of Edie and armed with Astrid’s shield and spear, slid from the creature’s back and landed securely on both feet. Tossing her braids over one shoulder, she looked back and opened her mouth to say something, but the sight of Edie’s face seemed to give her pause. She stared, bemused. “Are you all right? You’re so pale.”
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