by Zoë Archer
The force of their swords clashing against each other brought sparks. Gritting his teeth fiercely, Sam disengaged from Broadwell’s block and swung again. This time, his blade hit home. A gaping wound slashed from Broadwell’s throat down to his abdomen.
Had Broadwell been a mortal man, such a wound would’ve dropped him where he stood and he would bleed to death. But he wasn’t. Through the tear in Broadwell’s clothing, Sam saw the enormous cut already begin to close.
Broadwell spun and stabbed Sam straight through the thigh. Unlike a living man, Sam didn’t spray blood or buckle from the pain. Instead, his blade sliced across the side of Broadwell’s head.
His opponent made a guttural sound as his left ear and a goodly chunk of his face dropped to the ground. Within minutes, Sam knew, the ear and skin would regenerate while the severed flesh in the grass would turn to dust.
Sam would make sure that Broadwell’s lifeless body also crumbled to dust—before this day was through.
He and Broadwell slammed together, crossing swords, both snarling.
“A losing fight, Reed,” Broadwell rasped. “The Heirs always win.”
“Not today.”
Sam broke away to slice at Broadwell’s arm, but his move was parried. They fell back, then came together again, the sound of ringing steel sharp in the glade.
“Yes, let’s play a little longer,” Broadwell sneered. “While my friends take the Source from your whore. I think they’re enjoying themselves,” he added idly, glancing over Sam’s shoulder.
He’s trying to get into my mind again, Sam thought. Break my concentration. But, damn it, it worked.
Sam cast a quick look behind him. Fury shot through him. The two other Heirs closed in on Cassandra, and the looks on the men’s faces left no doubt as to what they planned on doing with her once the Source was theirs.
Bellowing in rage, Sam started toward her. Then stopped and looked down when he felt Broadwell’s sword pierce his shoulder straight through, right above the collarbone. He was skewered, but could only think of Cassandra, facing two enemies on her own.
Had to get to her. Had to protect her. No matter what.
“Damn,” Broadwell muttered, drawing his sword out of Sam’s body. “Just a little higher.” And he swung again.
Perhaps she’d led something of a sheltered life. Yet Cassandra could not imagine anything more horrible than the sight of Sam and Broadwell slashing at each other in vicious combat, absorbing wounds that would have killed a living man.
Only decapitation could kill Sam, she reminded herself, but she couldn’t stop her wincing in agony every time Broadwell cut deeply into Sam. At least Sam gave as brutally as he received.
As the two other Heirs stalked her, both with pistols drawn, she backed toward the trees surrounding the glade. When the men drew nearer, she darted between the tree trunks. A bullet whizzed past her, but she kept on running farther into the shelter of the forest, with the Heirs in fast pursuit. She ducked behind a tree in time to dodge another shot. Splinters of wood pelted her as a bullet slammed into the trunk.
She leaned around the tree long enough to fire back. Her shot went wide, but it forced the Heirs back so that they had to take their own cover.
Her heart throbbed in her throat. No one had ever shot at her before. Yet she couldn’t lose herself to fear.
Bullets whined through the forest as she and the Heirs exchanged gunfire. Cassandra winced when the thin Heir, the one called Purley, shot at her and she actually felt the heat of the bullet speed past her face. Two of them—twice as many guns—and only one of her.
“I’ve my own score to settle,” snarled Purley. He gripped his injured shoulder. “No woman hurts me without getting something worse in return. Just watch me destroy this bitch, Tolland.”
He darted forward and Cassandra shot. But her aim was no good, and he was too fast, because her bullet slammed uselessly into the ground. As he sped toward her, narrowing the two dozen feet between them, he aimed and fired.
A blur darted forward, intercepting the bullet.
Cassandra clapped a hand over her mouth. Sam. He’d run between her and Purley’s gun. The bullet pierced right below Sam’s ribs, yet he only grunted slightly from the impact.
“Hurt?” he demanded, whirling to face her.
Stunned, she shook her head. Then found her voice in time to cry out, “Behind you!”
Sam ducked just as Broadwell’s sword slashed out. The blade narrowly missed the top of Sam’s head and lodged itself into a nearby tree. Broadwell swore violently as he pried his sword from the trunk.
With one final, fierce glance in her direction, Sam charged toward Broadwell. The two undead men plunged back into their battle. They continued trading strikes and crossing swords, edging out of the woods and into the clearing.
Purley had ducked behind a tree to avoid Sam, but now the Heir crept toward her again. She fired, but her aim still wanted. So she shot again—or tried to. A clicking sound told her that her pistol was now empty and useless. There wasn’t time to reload.
Her head whipped up to see that the other Heir, Tolland, had used the distraction of Purley’s gunfire to come around and flank her. Tolland raised his pistol.
Cassandra dove down to the ground, but instead of gunfire, she heard another click. Peering up, she saw Tolland scowling at his empty pistol.
She shoved herself back to her feet, then fumbled in her pocket. Her hand clenched around a small vial. With all her strength, she threw the vial at the Heir.
It shattered against his chest, splattering him with green liquid. Hissing, he looked down at the large, sticky stain. He plucked at his clothing.
“What is this? An acid?”
If it was, it wasn’t very effective. His clothes and skin did not dissolve. In fact, nothing happened.
Both Heirs began to laugh. Cassandra’s heart sank. Damn! Whatever Honoria’s concoction was supposed to do, it hadn’t worked.
Now Purley came forward as an emboldened Tolland produced a long, wicked knife. He brandished it with a grin. “Mine, now, little Blade slut.” He stalked toward her.
Cassandra scurried around the tree at her back. The Heirs’ laughter ceased abruptly as buzzing filled the air. The sound came faintly at first, but then grew louder and louder, growing in intensity, until the noise deafened. Cassandra fought the urge to cover her ears, even though it felt as though the piercing sound went straight through her head.
“What the blazes is that?” demanded Purley.
“Oh, hell,” said Tolland weakly.
From deeper in the woods emerged a thick black cloud. It shot straight toward Tolland.
He started pulling at his clothing. Too late. The cloud descended on him, and he screamed. “Jesus! Bees!”
Both Cassandra and Purley backed off as thousands and thousands of bees alit all over Tolland, stinging him. The Heir opened his mouth to scream, and more bees flew in, stinging the inside of his mouth. Tolland dropped his knife as he waved his arms maniacally, but the bees continued to attack, clinging to the attractant covering his clothes and skin. Through the haze of thronging bees, Cassandra could just make out Tolland’s red swelling face and hands. He could barely open his eyes.
Shrieking, dancing about in a frenzy, Tolland broke into a run. The swarming bees pursued, even as he dashed farther into the trees. His screams and the buzzing died off into the distance.
Well—Cassandra would have to report back to Honoria that her invention was a roaring success.
Purley watched Tolland go with a look of horror combined with a flicker of relief that it wasn’t him being attacked by a countless multitude of bees. Then he turned to Cassandra with hate in his eyes.
“You don’t fight fair, bitch,” he spat.
“But using water monsters and exploiting Sources is altogether sporting,” she answered.
“Fine. We’ll do this sportingly.”
He aimed his pistol between her eyes.
Sam feinted, catching
the tip of Broadwell’s sword just across his throat. He resisted the urge to touch his fingertips to the cut. So close…
A curse from Broadwell. And a redoubling of effort. Met with equal intensity.
Under the shade of the trees, they fought, each swinging their weapons in purposeful, ruthless arcs. Cold fury gleamed in Broadwell’s eyes as he and Sam clashed.
“Always you,” Broadwell snarled between blows. “Even before I changed you. Challenging me at every turn, questioning my command.”
“You were never fit to be an officer,” Sam said. “The men meant nothing to you.”
Broadwell scoffed. “Why should they? Pawns on the chessboard. Only victory for England matters.”
“They had lives. You took that from them. From us.”
Broadwell bared his teeth. “You were ever a sodding thorn in my side.”
“Just a brief pain in your neck,” Sam said. “Then it’ll all be over.”
Broadwell’s retort was lost in a thunderous buzzing. Both their swords paused as the most enormous, angry swarm of bees Sam had ever seen came hurtling through the trees. It engulfed one of the Heirs close to Cassandra.
Broadwell gaped as his comrade screeched and ran, the bees in close pursuit.
Sam had no idea what Cassandra had done to call forth the bees and whip them into a stinging frenzy, but whatever she’d done, he wanted to call out his praise to her. Broadwell didn’t share Sam’s pleasure. Seeing the ignominious defeat of his fellow Heir, Broadwell grew even more enraged. Yet nothing could top the hate Sam felt for this bastard, who’d stolen everything, ruined hundreds of lives, including Sam’s own.
He and Broadwell smashed together. One of them, Sam knew without doubt, would not leave this glade.
Cassandra faced the Heir, Purley, staring down the barrel of his gun. Her mind churned as time both slowed and sped.
“Give me the Source,” Purley barked, “and I’ll kill you quickly.”
“Not much of an inducement.”
“Then I’ll take it from you and make you beg for death.”
Without moving her head, she glanced around quickly. There had to be something…something. She could try for the knife Tolland had dropped, but that was risky, since the knife lay midway between her and Purley. Attempting to grab the knife would bring her too close, only increasing the likelihood that he’d shoot her at close range. “I’ll take the third option.”
“There is no third option,” retorted the Heir.
But there was something. The very thing she needed to protect could give her precisely what she needed.
“As you wish.” With a sigh and bent head, she took the Source from her pocket and showed it to Purley. “This is what you want.”
His eyes lit greedily as he swayed closer. “Yes.”
“Come, then, and take it.”
She held the Source out, stepping closer. Purley narrowed the distance.
Cassandra threw the Source into the air.
“Bitch!” He looked up, stretching an arm overhead to reach the Source, the gun in his other hand momentarily forgotten.
She ran forward and, interlacing her fingers, brought her hands up as hard as she could into the underside of Purley’s chin. A sharp pain rattled her, but it was nothing like the jolt that ran through Purley. His whole body shuddered. He stumbled, trying to regain his footing, and Cassandra plowed her fists right into his nose.
Blood shot from his nostrils as his bones crunched. Then he fell to the ground, unmoving.
“That’s the third option,” she said.
Cassandra stared down at him while shaking out her aching hands. She thought of the teasing Charlie made her endure, the dirty fighting techniques she’d had to learn as a result, and she silently thanked her brother for being such a nuisance throughout their childhood.
Even in death, he’d helped to save her life.
She quickly grabbed the Source from where it had fallen in the grass, then retrieved the knife and plucked the pistol from the unconscious man’s hand. For a moment, she wavered. A seasoned soldier would put a bullet through his brain, but she was not a seasoned soldier. She couldn’t kill in cold blood—not even a man who would have readily done the same to her.
A nudge from her boot proved Purley was truly unconscious. She would have to think what to do with him. Throwing him off a cliff sounded extremely appealing.
The glade filled with the sound of steel against steel. Cassandra hurried to the edge of the woods and gulped with true terror to see Sam and Broadwell battle back and forth, trading blows without mercy. Both men were swathed in cuts and lacerations, their clothing barely held together. A sickly nub was all that marked where Broadwell’s left ear should be, and his cheek was a grotesque expanse of unformed flesh. The wounds enveloping Sam all showed to be in different stages of repair, including the one across Sam’s throat.
She saw in the way Sam fought that this was more than a simple duel—it was three years of vengeance. This was everything or nothing.
Though she wanted to call out to him, Cassandra knew Sam needed all his concentration focused on this one goal. Yet she could help.
Cassandra raised Purley’s gun and aimed.
Neither Sam nor Broadwell could tire. Nothing short of decapitation could kill them. Sam had an endless supply of rage fueling him. Broadwell hungered covetously for power.
This battle could stretch on forever.
Another kind of hell, locked eternally in combat with Sam’s most hated enemy. Broadwell had taken Sam’s life, but Sam wouldn’t allow him to steal anything more. He refused to surrender. Not only for the demands of justice, but because, if anything happened to Sam, Cassandra would be alone and vulnerable.
As their swords met again and again, Broadwell noticed Sam’s quick glance toward Cassandra emerging from the forest. A rapacious smile twisted his mouth.
“Never thought you a fool, Reed,” he sneered. “You could have immortality, unlimited power. Instead, your lusts have made you weak.”
“Not lust.” Sam blocked a strike and spun to make his own, which Broadwell barely countered. “Something better than that. And it’s made me stronger.”
Broadwell’s laugh was a hard bark. “Doubt it. When I finally take your head, I think I’ll keep your whore for myself, transform her. Then she’ll do exactly as I desire.” He licked his lips.
Though rage nearly blinded Sam, he fought it back as strongly as he battled his enemy. Broadwell counted on manipulating him through his feelings for Cassandra—just as he’d commanded him to perform unspeakable acts years ago. But Cassandra had shown Sam he was more than a thing to be controlled, more than a puppet pulled on the strings of revenge.
What remained of his life belonged to him.
Sam pushed himself, intensifying his attack until Broadwell had no choice but to begin defensively edging away.
A bullet slammed into Broadwell’s neck. The force caused him to stumble.
Sam whipped his head around to see Cassandra standing at the edge of the woods with a smoking pistol in her hands. She held his gaze.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Sam lunged and struck against the backs of Broadwell’s legs, severing the muscles. They’d regenerate, but not immediately, and Broadwell stumbled as his legs collapsed beneath him.
Broadwell cursed foully. From a kneeling position, he swung his sword in wild, frenetic arcs, knowing he’d lost parity.
Stepping forward, Sam neatly deflected the strikes. He felt himself grow suddenly very calm as he raised his own sword. A strange, profound stillness.
Broadwell looked up at Sam, at Sam’s blade glinting in the sunlight. His eyes widened, and a look of true fear distorted his face.
“You’ll have a lot to answer for, where you’re going,” said Sam. “Tell them who sent you.” And he brought his sword down.
Broadwell’s head rolled across the grass, the expression of terror still on his face. His body dropped to the ground with a thud.
Moving back, Sam gazed down at his enemy’s body. He felt no sense of relief, completion, or triumph. It was over. The nightmare of the last three years was done. And he felt numb and cold.
“Sam!”
He looked up to see Cassandra dashing toward him. She was a little scraped, a bit fatigued, her hair coming down and dust covering her clothes. And so beautiful, running to his opening arms.
That’s when it came, like a hawk breaking free of its jesses. The realization hit that vengeance brought him nothing. But there was another burst of emotion so powerful, it nearly made him stagger. Sam saw this new emotion for what it was.
Love.
She raced toward him, needing to feel his solid, true presence, his arms around her, her own entwined around him. All she saw was Sam, tall and straight and eager for her.
Yet as she neared, he suddenly darted to one side. He leapt right past her, his sword upraised, icy fury etched across his handsome face.
Cassandra spun around. She couldn’t stop her gasp of surprise.
Purley stood only feet behind her, his hands upraised as if to grab her, gaping in shock as he saw Sam’s blade plunged directly into his heart. A growing red stain spread across his chest. Then he slid off the steel and onto the ground.
Sam withdrew his sword and dispassionately wiped it on the grass. He sheathed it before turning to her.
She found herself pulled fiercely into his strong arms, and she gripped him just as tightly.
After a moment, they silently moved away from the bodies of Purley and Broadwell to a patch of sunlit, clean grass, untouched by violence.
In this small island of light, Cassandra and Sam wrapped their arms around each other—a hold so tight, they nearly fused into one being. They each absorbed what had just happened, how close they’d come to losing one another, and how they had both come to each other’s aid.
“Sam,” she breathed. Just saying his name was a balm to her heart. “My courageous soldier.”