Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga
Page 20
If the Leviathan was to destroy the blood, then destroy the blood it would.
Monçada's protests were quickly crushed from him. He could not draw enough air to speak. Lucita had ceased to struggle, and Fatima, sensing that the creature’s grip was less intense if she did not resist, lay still as well.
Monçada, however, thrashed and sputtered as much as he was able. His rage was beyond him. First his daughter and now his guardian beast had attacked him. The tendrils swarmed over him like a pack of desert jackals on a fresh carcass. They wrapped his legs, his torso and his arms. His entire head now was dark crimson with rage.
As the tendrils began to crack his bones, Monçada finally mastered his pique and turned the force of his will rather than that of his body against the beast. The Leviathan, Monçada’s creation, faltered. The tide of blackness receded ever so slightly. The legion of tendrils lost an ounce of their determination.
It was all the opening Fatima needed. In the instant the tentacles eased their grip, she was free. Scimitar flying in a broad arc, she leapt at Monçada.
The aged Lasombra, however, had wrested his good arm free of the shadow as well. He blocked the sword. The blow sliced off his hand—but he kept his head.
At close quarters now, Fatima feinted with the scimitar but produced another hidden dagger from her belt. Monçada could not avoid the blade. The dagger dug deep into his girth, but in taking the wound he was able, even lacking the hand, to wrap his good arm around Fatima. He began crushing her in his powerful grip, much as the Leviathan had moments before.
The tendrils of the shadow beast sprang forward again and wrapped Monçada and Fatima together, crushing them in a lovers’ embrace. Under the pressure, Fatima felt a rib give way, and then another. She worked at the dagger. The double bear hug of Monçada and the Leviathan did more than she could to drive the blade home. Monçada grimaced as the gin-gin began to take effect.
She knew the burning pain that made his belly an inferno. She twisted the blade, spreading the poison. But Monçada’s eventual destruction would not save her. At the edge of her vision, bright lights began to dance among the shadow. One of her broken ribs pierced skin.
As consciousness fled, Fatima called on the blood one final time, and it answered her. Her face was pressed against Monçada’s chest. She looked up and for an instant, squeezed together in the Leviathan’s crushing grip, their gazes met. Monçada’s eyes revealed exhilaration. Through the pain of his innards being eaten away, he was joyous. Joyous that Fatima would meet her end with him, and something else—something that Fatima could only read as fulfillment.
But then the blood answered her truly. It welled up in her throat and spewed out her mouth into Monçada’s face. And where the blood of Haqim touched the kafir, it burned. This time, Monçada found air enough to scream.
His skin peeled away before the blood. His eyes shriveled away. Only smoldering holes remained. Still the blood flowed. Fatima disgorged a forceful spray until her strength was no more. She slumped to the floor, only slowly remembering to be surprised at her freedom. The Leviathan was shriveling. The tentacles drew back and were nothing. The pool of blackness retreated to separate patches in the corners of the rooms.
Monçada gave one last garbled scream, then his head was gone, the blood eating away flesh and bone from without as did the poison from within. Fatima was too weak to roll far out of the way as what remained of his bloated form collapsed into a smoldering heap on the floor. As she lay staring numbly at the ceiling, cracks spread through the stones, and tiny pieces of rock and mortar began falling like the first drops of an approaching storm.
Wednesday, 6 October 1999, 1:10 AM
Calle del Sapo
Madrid, Spain
Anwar and Mahmud stood back to back. Their strength was spent. Each bled from wounds he could no longer heal. Anwar held his katar down at his side, unable to raise the blade above his waist.
The circling darkness crept nearer. The shadow warriors moved closer for the kill.
“Quickly,” Mahmud said, thrusting his forearm at Anwar, “take my blood so you can escape when they pounce on me.”
Anwar had too little strength for debate, but with a gentle touch, he pushed Mahmud’s arm away. Anwar would not be the sole survivor of this battle. The success of the mission did not depend upon one of them escaping this place. Glory would rise or fall with Fatima. Anwar would walk away with Mahmud or not at all.
Monçada’s legionnaires circled more closely. The darkness approached that would claim Anwar. Weakness overcame him and he stumbled. No. He realized at once that it was not he who moved but the ground itself.
As if to confirm his belief, another tremor shook the earth beneath him. The shockwaves were noticeable but not overly violent. Judging by the reaction of the legionnaires, however, Anwar would have thought the world itself was split asunder.
Cries of anguish came from the shadows, and then the darkness itself was swirling and churning. All around the two assassins, the cries turned to high-pitched screams. The shadows broke into distinct, black cyclones, each no larger than a man. As suddenly as the cyclones had formed, the earth seemed to suck them down through tiny holes, and the frantic wails were no more.
Wednesday, 6 October 1999, 1:13 AM
Catacombs, Iglesia de San Nicolás de las Servitas
Madrid, Spain
The dust and bits of stone falling from the ceiling seemed to float leisurely to the floor. Fatima lay on her back watching them, thinking how peaceful it seemed. Part of her mind recognized the seductive lure of torpor. Her body was battered. She had sacrificed much of her blood for the mission. Monçada was destroyed. Now that will had fled his form, his smoldering remains had crumbled away to nothing.
The Leviathan, too, was gone. Fatima felt its absence keenly. After falling twice under its sway, she realized how its sprawling malevolence, an extension of Monçada’s will given life, had spread into every crevice of the cardinal’s haven. The shadow beast had been the foundation of this place more so than any amount of stone or mortar.
And now that it was gone, stone and mortar were giving way. Floor and wall were trembling.
A hand took hold of Fatima’s arm. She looked up to see Lucita, bleeding from the mouth.
“Are you here to kill me too?” Lucita asked.
Fatima almost laughed. For once, she couldn’t tell if Lucita was being sarcastic or not. Probably she was, Fatima decided. Fatima barely possessed the strength to struggle up to a sitting position. On the other hand, Lucita wasn’t in much better shape.
In way of a response, Fatima leaned over and kissed Lucita gently, licked the blood from her lips. Fatima was too weak even to act upon the hunger that the tantalizing taste of blood stirred within her. She was thankful for the weakness, for the ordeal they had just endured. It removed from her shoulders the need for decision—though she knew well what the decision would be.
The two helped each other to their feet. Fatima took an agonizing few moments to pull at her side, to slide the skin back over the protruding rib. Together, they made what haste they could, as larger chunks of stone crashed to the floor around them.
They worked their way in silence through the darkness. Fatima led them back along the tunnel she had taken, and Lucita seemed content to go along. The shadows seemed shallower than before. The darkness was not so overpowering.
Lucita climbed up first into the fresh air of the vegetable stall. From below on the crudely hewn ladder, Fatima heard Lucita’s muttered curses. When Fatima’s head rose above ground, she saw the reason: Standing not far from Lucita was Anwar. He was covered with gashes and bruises and looked as if he might fall over from exhaustion any moment. But he held a submachine gun trained on Lucita. Once Fatima joined them, all three stood teetering, remaining upright by will alone.
Tired as he was, Anwar’s glare was hard and triumphant. He didn’t take his eyes from Lucita, though he spoke to his brethren: “I thought you would come out this way.”
Fatima knew what was in his mind and heart. Seeing her again meant that Monçada was destroyed, that their mission was successful. He was rightfully filled with pride and satisfaction. And here was the cardinal’s childe. There was no longer any chance of jeopardizing the mission, no longer any reason not to destroy her.
Fatima stepped toward him. She placed a hand on the muzzle of the gun and calmly pushed it away. Now he did look at her. He shot her a challenging glance. Fatima held his stare until he looked away.
She stayed there, with her hand on the gun, until she could hear that Lucita had walked away. Until Lucita was gone.
Anwar did not question. It would not be proper. But Fatima knew the resentment she had planted in his heart.
“She is mine,” Fatima said.
This made some sense to Anwar but did not answer all of his unspoken questions. Why not destroy Lucita now, while the opportunity presented itself? There would be no shame for Fatima in accepting assistance. The will of the clan outweighed matters of individual pride.
But Fatima felt that she had proven herself worthy. She would deal with Lucita at some point. And if the dreams visited her before that time, if she came to face the judgment of the herald…then maybe Anwar would have his chance.
About the Author
Gherbod Fleming lives with his wife and their three cats. Thanks to a monopoly on opposable thumbs, the humans currently enjoy the upper hand. Fleming is the author of Clan Novel: Gangrel and Clan Novel: Ventrue, as well as the Vampire: The Masquerade Trilogy of the Blood Curse—The Devil’s Advocate, The Winnowing, and Dark Prophecy.