by L. A. Banks
He stood fast, glanced back at Rider and Shabazz, and nodded a nonverbal thanks. But his condition was real. Big Mike’s gun butt had had more of an effect on the female vamp than he did. If the dog hadn’t been there and assisted, if the Guardians hadn’t had his back . . . He had to get Damali and her team off the ship while there was still time. Council was taking away his power.
Drawing together like a magnet, the team instinctively formed a ring around Damali. The hound howled and stood by Carlos. The ship leaned at a harder angle and groaned. The lower-level vampires who were left backed up and sought cover.
“She’s going down,” Carlos said, his terror unmasked as his gaze swept the group then the open sea. “I have to bring it to a full stop and reverse engines.”
Damali touched his face, her fingers tracing Master Xe’s blow that still bled, then she looked at his ragged shoulder. “You have to feed. You don’t have that much energy in you—your wounds aren’t sealing.”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing on the boat to eat.” He stared at her, refusing to look at anyone else in the group.
“Save the key, Carlos. Don’t worry about me!” She extended her arm and he glanced at it and staggered away, going to the stern. He held onto the rail and closed his eyes. He could feel energy draining away, making it hard to breathe as the ship slowed to become dead in the water. He pushed off of the rail, his hands forward, concentrating everything within him to a pinpoint of fury, then fell back as the listing vessel lurched and jettisoned in the opposite direction going toward the harbor.
Gasping, he lay on the deck. It was getting too near dawn. Hell was siphoning him hard for answers, draining him. He could smell the putrid stench of Hell-hound saliva and the creature nuzzling him back to consciousness. Footsteps echoed from the deck wood into him, pain. Hands pulled at his body. Sweat blinded him, but he managed to stand. His vision was fuzzy, unfocused for a moment, but he could feel the speed by the rate of the wind passing him. A pair of tender arms held him upright. Sydney Harbor Bridge was coming into view, and he could hear the speedboats rushing to rendezvous in the distance.
“Get on the boats,” he said, his speech slurring from fatigue as he weaved. “I can’t stop it from hitting the harbor.”
“We all do this, man,” Shabazz said.
“No,” Carlos said, almost unable to lift his head. “Protect the package,” he croaked, pushing Damali away from him, staggering backward, and snapping his fingers for the dog. “No acid,” he yelled at the creature. “No harm. Do not bear down—carry her for me. Be my arms.”
“We are not doing this again,” Damali yelled. But as she took a step forward, the Hell-hound rushed her, grabbing her in its massive jaws, and flew off without biting down, and dumped her into Marlene’s fast-moving skimmer. Then it circled back to the ship.
Marlene rubbed Damali’s back as she jumped up and leaned far over the side of the speedboat, straining toward the larger vessel. Father Lopez made a U-turn in the water and came alongside the rocketing yacht. Father Patrick and the other clerics flanked Marlene’s speedboat, all eyes looking up, trying to keep from bumping the vessel beside them, but also urging with their eyes for the rest of the team to quickly join them.
“Jose, J.L., Dan,” Carlos yelled, not looking at them, but sending the order to the dog, who responded instantly. Carlos looked at Jose. “The others are too heavy now, the dog hasn’t been fed, is exhausted, and might drop them. Don’t fight me. Remember what I told you. Hallowed ground. Deliver the package intact.”
All the Guardians glanced at each other. The dog hadn’t eaten. Jose nodded, and nervously complied on trust alone, committing his body to the dog’s jaws. They all watched as the animal brought the three lighter-weight Guardians and dropped them with a soft thud. But on each pass, the animal visibly slowed its return, the exhaustion clear as it strained harder with each delivery.
“We ain’t leaving you,” Big Mike hollered. “We’ll jump, Mar can circle back.”
“The sharks,” Carlos said. “I can’t hold them back.”
“We are one,” Rider said.
“Carlos, throw a line, and let Rider and—”
A swirling black cloud silenced Damali’s urgent demand. It was headed in a direct path, perpendicular to the port side of the listing yacht. Carlos turned slowly, knowing exactly what it was. Council transport.
The dark tornado cut the water in two frothing sections that made the speedboats bounce and have to pull away from the yacht to avoid collision. Black lightning zigzagged through the Hell-sent mass, flashing hints of red-eyed courier bats within it before going dark again. The angry screeches sliced his eardrums and made Big Mike hurl. Carlos glanced at the cloud and then at the horror in Damali’s eyes.
Gale-force winds made it hard for them all to stand. The remaining lower-level hiding vampires and helpers that cowered at the bow took their chances against the sharks, leaping off the yacht like lemmings. Angry jaws from beneath the water’s surface abandoned their chase of the speedboats and headed back toward the yacht. Their instant feeding frenzy colored the water, turning it black and red and sizzling. Vampire extinctions and human cries rent the air as lieutenants and helpers fought against the impossible—nature’s efficient garbage disposal system.
With his last ounce of strength, Carlos slung his arm in the three ship-trapped guardians’ direction, knocking them overboard from the starboard side, jettisoning them forward, his mind connecting them with the two speedboats, separating their landings as his fists opened, his fingers craned, and the veins stood up in his neck—they could not fall wrong and die, it would break her heart.
Instantly, he saw Berkfield’s terror-stricken face within his mind’s eye and felt a small surge of light enter him as he grappled to get past the dark current shackling the man’s arm’s and legs within one of the four coffins hidden within the engine room. Deck board splintered; a hole opened in the ship all the way to the hull. The boat listed at the invasion, and a frightened, weary man bubbled up with a froth of sea water, choking.
The exertion brought Carlos to his knees. The cloud was calling. Carlos looked at Berkfield, unable to even speak. He glanced at the speedboats and used the last that was in him to slam Berkfield into the getaway vessel closest to the yacht. Carlos stopped breathing. His heartbeat slowed to a crawl and then died.
His dog was now circling him, growling, stalking him. He’d lost favor. His throne had been revoked. Power drained from his hands, the cloud was calling. He looked up at the waning moon. He’d had a good run, had played it to the bone, but it was time to ante up and pay the band. Carlos closed his eyes, feeling the foul wind on his face. He was oddly at peace—the lie was out, he’d been busted . . . the night was on his face. Damali’s sobbing voice begging him to jump was a stabbing pain in his temple.
“We don’t leave our own!” Shabazz hollered. “You’re one of us—always were. C’mon man, you’re a Guardian!”
Father Patrick’s loud, fervent prayers made his ears ring, but didn’t slow the cloud. Marlene’s, and prayers from all the others, blended in and became chants that only made the tornado pick up speed. Damali’s voice was drowned out by the turbine winds. Berkfield was weeping as the clerics whisked him toward the shore. This was Hell’s concern, he was theirs, he’d used their credit at the table. A deal was a deal. All the power to play by their rules. He’d reneged, now it was their turn to do said same. It was nonnegotiable.
He could hear futile gunfire whirring through the cloud. A rocket-propelled grenade lit the cloud like the Fourth of July, but it kept coming. Hell’s debt-collection system had a score to settle.
Father Lopez pulled away, Father Patrick’s boat on his flank. They were giving up! Damali’s eyes filled.
“No!” she screamed, her voice breaking with a sob. “Don’t let them take him!” Strong hands held her from the boat’s edge—she’d swim if she had to but she wasn’t letting him die alone, not like that.
She reach
ed out, and opened her hand—the Isis filled it as Carlos looked back at her slowly one last time. Then the cloud collided with the yacht, and the fireball explosion sent splintering cinders everywhere, rocking their careening speedboats almost out of the water.
Marble broke his fall, shattering his kneecaps. Carlos rolled over on his side, his legs jelly, as agony shot up his thighs, into his groin, and stabbed his abdomen. Three sets of black robes swished by him—he could hear them near, hovering, repressed fury making the air around him crackle and pop. He opened his eyes slowly, his face a hot poker against the icy floor.
He peered up at the chairman, then focused on the other two councilmen. Tetrosky stood by the council table, his expression triumphant.
“Stand and face me!” the chairman bellowed, raising Carlos to his feet by sheer will and an outstretched claw. Then he flung him to a far wall and hurled two stalactites at him, spearing his arms to keep him hanging against it.
The instant agony made Carlos close his eyes and release a long yell that echoed and bounced through the chamber, his body convulsing and burning until his muscles stopped twitching.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” the chairman said. His voice was even, level, controlled as the vampire tribunal approached Carlos. He grasped Carlos’s jaw in his gnarled hand, forcing Carlos to look at him, squeezing his face until his fangs dropped. “You don’t even deserve to possess these,” he whispered, seething, then let go of Carlos’s face, pacing away. “I am so disappointed,” he said with his back to Carlos, his voice escalating in volume with every word, his hands now outstretched, gathering strength, curling in, rattling thrones until the huge pentagram-shaped table shuddered.
When he turned around to face Carlos, black tears of rage shimmered in his eyes nearly eclipsing his all-red pupils. Breathing hard, the chairman paced over to Carlos again, reared back, drew his arm far over his shoulder, and released a backhanded slap that took out one of Carlos’s fangs, leaving blood in his mouth. “Ingrate! Infidel! Heretic! Treasonous bastard, I made you!”
The blow had shattered his jaw, and a long trail of saliva mixed with blood oozed to the floor from where his left fang used to be. He shut his eyes tight, hurt as much from the blow as he was from the humiliation. He could feel a claw dig into his wet scalp and thrust his head back, forcing him to stare into furious glowing eyes. Then his jaw repaired, minus his fang, as the eyes narrowed on him.
“Speak to me!” the chairman bellowed. He dropped Carlos’s head from his grasp and walked away, pacing hotly, drawing smoke from the floor as he waited for an explanation.
Carlos glanced around the room, looking for anything to cling to, a place to begin. Tetrosky’s sly smile dug into his pride. “I made the drug because—”
“Silence!” The chairman was trembling, and the other councilmen backed up, hissing. He stretched his arm out behind him and pointed to Tetrosky. “He brought a valid complaint to my chambers about my most trusted, most promising councilman!” The chairman closed his eyes and made a tent in front of his mouth. Then he lowered his voice to a murmur. “I do not care about a little masters’ territory squabble.”
The elderly vampire swished away and walked up to Tetrosky, grabbing him by the throat so fast that Tetrosky hadn’t been able to avoid the snatch. The chairman studied the fear in Tetrosky’s eyes with casual disdain. “We were debating the futile,” he said, speaking over his shoulder to Carlos while holding Tetrosky. “I explained to him that I didn’t give a centuries damn about his losses, or the fact that my own turned councilman had bested him and the others in a blood hunt. Winner takes all. Those are the rules. And I told this pathetic topside master that if power was to concentrate, then let it be with the better vampire—so be it. And if my turn was conniving and shrewd enough to use a drug, or whatever ruthless methods to deceive him, then that truly showed who was the better vampire.”
The chairman dropped his hold on Tetrosky and let out a long sigh. “I was so proud of you, son.” The chairman shook his head as he stared at Carlos. He drew a deep, shaky breath, and let it out slowly. “So, I told this sniveling, Old World bastard to get used to a new empire—Carlos Rivera was progressive, street savvy, had shown even me something new . . . and I cannot tell you how long it’s been since I’ve seen something new!” He turned his attention back to Tetrosky. “Didn’t I?”
Tetrosky nodded. “Yes, Your Excellency,” he said, genuflecting and backing away.
“And I told him to take his pathetic, pampered, betrayal-ridden carcass out of my chambers and away from my sight, and to never darken our threshold down here again—not over some bullshit about his feudal rights over a woman!” The chairman whirled around, snapped his fingers, and brought a transport cloud down to collect Tetrosky. “But now, I may have to cede Europe back to him! Perhaps the entire topside empire! Why? Because as the only topside master that has survived this fiasco, he told me that you possessed the key that would open the seal—that it was your treachery! It was hidden in your marked human. And he let me witness with my own eyes how you sent that key away with clerics en-route to hallowed ground to protect him. And you also impregnated our vessel—stealing daylight and power from me not once, but twice!”
His gaze narrowed on Tetrosky as the smoke gathered around him. “Although I have not decided to give him all that he asked for yet.” The chairman glared at Tetrosky. “So do not get comfortable even lusting over the idea. You did yourself a disservice. Instead of taking your losses like a true master and being clever enough to bide your time to win your losses back, you came to council like a child, wanting your territory handed back to you on a silver platter.” The chairman shook his head. “You disgust me. Our kind, from the old days, would have seen that as a challenge, raised an army, embedded intrigue in Rivera’s own courts, but we would never have whined about our misfortunes. Youth! What is happening in our world? You had the perfect opportunity to show me something new—your worst deceptions through creativity!”
With that, he bitch-slapped Tetrosky. “You dishonor Dracula’s line, and will never descend to a throne under my rule for bringing this information to me that breaks my heart about my favorite—I will never forgive you for that.”
The chairman stepped away from the cloud. Tears of humiliation glittered in Tetrosky’s eyes and burned away as he glanced at Carlos while the dense cloud consumed him.
In the quiet moments while the chairman took deep, stabilizing breaths and Tetrosky disappeared, a new awareness entered Carlos. He clung to the acquired knowledge like a life raft. The chairman had said he was his favorite. Had called him son. Like an heir apparent to the top seat, someone being groomed for further descent. Even in his wrath, the old vampire’s spirit had hesitated to exterminate him. He’d felt it in the blow, in the crushing hold of his hand, the way he’d held himself back from ripping out his heart, had repaired his jaw to hear his side of the dispute.
Their eyes met, one pair older and seeming broken, one pair hopeful.
“Carlos,” the chairman whispered, and then looked at the two seething councilmen by his side. “Leave us,” he ordered, and waited until the others begrudgingly vanished. He returned his focus to Carlos. “Have you any idea how much pain this causes me?”
The chairman shook his head slowly, coming to Carlos without fury. “No, you don’t. You never will.” He walked back and forth slowly with his eyes closed and his hands behind his back.
Carlos knew it was useless to try to offer an explanation in his own defense, no matter what Tetrosky had done, or how he’d been set up. The balance of the evidence was damning. He could feel his mind being torn open from the lethal probe. Blood began to run down his nostrils, burning, stinging, and making him gag. The pain was so intense from the brutal invasion that he could barely hold his head up. But there was one thing about a mind probe, it always worked both ways.
“My Neteru . . .” the chairman said, his voice far off as he chuckled and took another deep, stabilizing breath. He
looked at Carlos. “I was midsentence, tongue-lashing Tetrosky, when her blood dropped onto my council table and the light in it burned a hole straight through the marble.” He smiled and pointed. “Right on the crest.” Then chuckling, he rubbed his hooked hand over his bald scalp. “Burned right through the table and went all the way to level seven.”
Carlos blinked and sniffed back blood and mucous. “History is repeating itself, isn’t it, sir?”
The chairman nodded. “I thought you could beat the cycle,” he whispered. His gaze was eerily tender. “You had become so intertwined in their lives . . . so trusted, that you could roll over prayer lines and live. I had seen a new era. Not even hallowed ground could stop you. I nearly wept with pride. For a moment I tasted the elusive thing called hope.”
The old man walked away and gave Carlos his back, his breaths shuddering his body as he spoke. “You were with ripe Neteru on hallowed ground, about to start an empire.”
“Sir, she was just in false flux and—”
“Do not mock me at this juncture!” The chairman spun, his arm outstretched, pointing at Carlos so hard that his chest started to groan, ribs snapping slowly, his heart tearing away from the surrounding tissues. He drew back his arm in a fast jerk, and Carlos’s body slumped. “You think I do not know the true scent of ripened Neteru?”
Agitated, the chairman paced back and forth quickly, stuttering as he spoke, lather forming at the corners of his mouth, his fangs dropping three additional inches. “I don’t know because I am an old man?” He paced some more, stopping in front of Carlos. “I bit the first Neteru on the planet. Eve!” The chairman slapped the center of his chest, and spit on the floor. “Human prayer lines? Please!”
Pure, unadulterated shock held Carlos against the wall harder than the rock spears the chairman had hurled. “Eve?” The question came out on an awed whisper filled with genuine respect.