Blood Fury

by J. R. Ward

  Ruhn had to frown. "Forgive me, my Lord, but I cannot read or write. How could I ever help the Royal Solicitor with his work?"

  Saxton stepped forward, and as he did, his scent reached Ruhn's nose--which seemed a strange thing to notice. Then again, none of this visit seemed normal at all.

  "Our King," the male said, "would like me to be accompanied for the purpose of protection on my visit to the civilian. The Brothers, soldiers, and trainees are otherwise occupied in the field, guarding this house, or resting, and assigning one of them to this task would be a misappropriation of sorts."

  Wrath put his palm up. "Look. I just want you to be there in case any of these humans comes down with a terminal case of the stupids. This is not a wartime situation, but I also don't like the idea of Saxton out there without anyone watching his back. And word has it...you know how to fight--very fucking well, indeed."

  As Ruhn looked away, he could feel Saxton staring at him--and there was a temptation to deny or...at least diminish the past. Of course, he couldn't do that without contradicting his King--and outright lying. Besides, surely the solicitor had been told about him.

  "Again, I don't anticipate either of you being in danger," Wrath pronounced, "but I can't promise that you won't find a little conflict. It is nothing you can't handle, though--not with what you've already faced."

  As an old, familiar exhaustion settled with the weight of a mountain on his shoulders, Ruhn let his head drop and grew silent.

  "You don't have to," Wrath said in an even tone. "This is not a condition for you to remain in the house."

  After a moment, Ruhn looked up at his ruler. The great Blind King was staring across at him with such fixation, you could have sworn he had sight. And then his nostrils flared as if he were scenting something.

  Abruptly, Wrath turned his head in the direction of his solicitor. "It's okay, I'll get you someone else--"

  "I'll do it," Ruhn said roughly. And then he switched into the Old Language. "I owe you a great debt already for allowing me unto your blessed home and permitting me to reside therein. To do this service unto you is an honor."

  Ruhn forced his body out of the chair and he walked forward to kneel at his King's boots.

  But Wrath did not put the great black diamond out for the vow. "You sure about this. I'm not into forcing people to do shit--well, not people I don't want to kill for survival or sport."

  "I am certain."

  Those nostrils flared again. And then the King nodded. "So be it."

  As the ring was proffered, Ruhn kissed the massive stone. "In this and all things, I shall not fail you, my Lord."

  When he got back up to his feet, he glanced at Saxton. The solicitor was still staring at him, an inscrutable expression on those features that were so perfectly handsome, they were intimidating--and that was before you added in all those intelligent words he was always speaking or his perfect mannerisms or his fine and fancy clothes.

  "If you will permit us, my Lord," the male said, "I should like to walk him out? And now would be a good time for you to take a break for some sustenance. We have three more hours ahead of us."

  Ruhn was vaguely aware of Wrath saying a few things and Saxton answering back.

  All he could focus on was the fact that he had gotten pulled in again.

  The last thing he wanted to do was fight with anyone or anything, whether it was offensively or defensively.

  He had left all that behind.

  But he couldn't deny his King. Or the fact that yes, he could see why anyone would want to keep that solicitor safe. The gentlemale was so smart, and so integral to everything the King did here. Ruhn had heard the stories around the dinner table at the mansion. Saxton was indispensable.

  With any luck, he told himself, he wouldn't have to kill anybody this time. He truly hated that part.

  Even though he was very, very good at it.

  --

  Just humans.

  As Novo and John Matthew rematerialized in the shadows downwind from the pair of winter night-wanderers, it was amply clear that they were not the enemy. Which didn't mean the two men weren't a potential threat and, therefore, killable. But proper provocation by them was required, and as much as she might have been able to engineer the shit, that was a pussy move--as well as against the rules.

  Live and let live, unless forced into engagement.

  "Damn it," she muttered.

  John Matthew nodded. Then pointed back to where they had been.

  "Yeah, we better stay on track."

  Twenty minutes later, they had covered the first leg of their sector and it was time to double-back. And it was so funny--while they cut over one block, she remembered the first couple of nights she'd been in the field. One of the big challenges to this kind of work was in not becoming frustrated that you weren't in a bare-knuckler every single minute you were out here.

  Somehow, she'd assumed she'd be fighting all the time.

  Yeah, not by half. The discipline to it all--and something she was still working on--was in staying sharp without becoming worn out as minutes turned into quarter hours and then half hours. You needed to be as fresh at the last second of the night as you were at the first, because you never knew when you--

  As her new earpiece went off, she brought up her gloved hand and pushed it farther into place. "Shit."

  Be careful what you wish for, she thought as she got her gun back out again.

  John Matthew tapped her shoulder and she nodded. "Yeah, I'll flank left."

  Seconds later, they dematerialized into a dogfight. Paradise and Phury were holding their own against a slayer, pushing the lesser back in the alley. But two more had showed up at the far end.

  Novo made a quick calculation and lunged forward, going on the attack. There was too great a chance of collateral damage if she used her gun, so as she ran, she re-holstered that weapon and unsheathed one of her daggers.

  With her fangs bared and a great rage in her heart, she hit the lesser on the left like a train, plowing it down before it knew what the fuck was happening. She stabbed it in the throat at the Adam's apple, and then, with her free hand, grabbed the front of its leather jacket and began to drive the back of its skull into the iced-over snowpack, again and again and again.

  Black blood splattered up into her face, getting in her eyes and her mouth, the sickly sweet taste mixing with the frigid inhales that burned a path to her gut.

  In the dim recesses of her mind, she knew she needed to move on to the other one. She needed to drive her dagger blade into the center of this goddamn thing's chest so it could go back to the Omega--and then she had to continue to help in the fight.

  Her arm was like a piston, though, and the black stain in the snow under the impact spot grew ever wider. The fucking fantastic part? The slayer was aware of everything that was happening, the pain she was causing registering in its shocked expression and gagging breaths.

  There was only one way to "kill" a lesser.

  You had to stab them through the non-existent heart. So she could keep this up for a year and the piece of shit, this immortal murderer of her kind, would feel fresh agony with each and every strike--

  A bullet sizzled by her left ear and she looked up. About fifteen feet away, another slayer had come into the alley, ready to play, and he had a poodle shooter in his palm.

  Which would have been a joke, except he was aiming the gun right at her--any closer, it would have been point-blank.

  Novo went into a roll, pulling the incapacitated slayer on top of her as a shield. In the process, she lost her dagger, but she had other options--digging for her hip, she took out her gun, shoved it through the various body parts flopping around her face, and started popping off rounds.

  She caught the newest arriving slayer in the shoulder, the impact pitching him back on that side, but the wounding didn't slow the bastard down much--so she kept on shooting until her clip ran out. Good news? She blew the slayer right off his feet. The bad? In the next heartbeat, t
he undead was back and popping--bringing out a second gun.

  Motherfucker--Novo scrambled through the floppy-limbed, stinking, oozing half-corpse on top of her for her own fresh clip.

  Too late. Too uncoordinated.

  She was going to be dead--

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of movement, and it didn't take more than a second to ID it: Paradise was bolting out of the shadows in a crouch, clearly ready to tackle the shooter.

  Thank God. But Novo was taking nothing for granted. She managed to slap her backup clip into the butt of her gun and raise the muzzle, except she held her trigger, as she didn't want to hit Paradise--

  Somebody passed right in front of Novo's gun--and directly into the bullets the slayer was discharging. The flash came from the left and moved so fast, she couldn't track whether it was friend or foe.

  Except then she recognized exactly who it was.

  Peyton didn't give Paradise a chance to do her job. He barreled into her and knocked her out of range and into a snowbank, eliminating the defensive strategy that had been engineered to save Novo.

  The slayer with the gun got off two more rounds, which through nothing but blind luck missed, and then it took advantage of the opportunity to escape, pulling a turnaround and run-like-fuck--

  He didn't get far. Zsadist was on him, a pop! and a flash of light announcing a quick dispatch.

  And with that, thanks to all the other backups that had come on scene, the action was over as suddenly as it had presented itself.

  "What the fuck is wrong with you!" the Brother Phury barked.

  As he and John Matthew came pounding over in the snow, it was very clear that the silent fighter was every bit as Absolutely Batshit Rip Ass as the Brother was.

  Novo shoved her lesser-blanket off to the side some and lifted her head so she could see the ass kicking roll out. Also started checking for bullet wounds on herself.

  Meanwhile, Phury peeled Peyton off Paradise like he was cling wrap, and the Brother all but tossed that fighter across the city. As Peyton landed with disappointing agility, shit was on.

  Phury marched across the snowpack. "You want to explain what the hell that was all about?" The Brother jabbed a finger at Paradise, who was back up on her shitkickers and brushing snow off her leathers. "You compromised our team, endangered two people's lives, and cost us a slayer."

  Peyton crossed his arms over his chest and stared at a point over Phury's left shoulder. Then he paced around until he happened to stand beside Novo. "Paradise was in trouble."

  "Excuse me?" the female said. "What was that?"

  Peyton refused to look at her. "He had a gun. He could have swung it around and shot her in the face."

  "Except that by the time he'd have seen me," she countered, "I would have had control of the weapon. He was fully diverted."

  "You don't know that." Peyton shook his head. "You totally don't."

  "Yeah. I do." Paradise stomped her way across the alley, meeting the male head-on. "I had made the assessment, and I was executing. If I didn't take out that gun, he might have killed Novo."

  "And again, I'll say that you don't know that."

  Novo rolled her eyes. Thanks for your concern, asshole.

  And, p.s., why are you two having this argument right over me?

  For fuck's sake, there was no getting up now, not unless she wanted to play full-contact ref.

  Paradise threw up her hands. "But I didn't get a chance to find out, did I. Because you decided to be a goddamn hero when I didn't need one."

  Preach, sister, Novo thought as she shoved the barely moving slayer farther off herself and sat up.

  "This is unacceptable." Phury got his phone. "You're out of the field until further notice."

  "What!" Done with that off-the-shoulder eye thing, Peyton glared directly at the Brother. "What for!"

  "Not following protocol." Phury put his palm out. "Shut your mouth. I can assure you, nothing you say is going to help--"

  The dagger came in a fat circle from out of nowhere, the stabbing motion on a trajectory directly for the center of Novo's chest.

  A shout exploded out of her as she put her arms up to catch the forearm: The heavily wounded slayer had somehow found her discarded blade...and was doing its level best to return it to her. And the undead was hellaciously strong, even with all its leaks.

  Especially as her grip slipped free because of all that black blood she had drawn--

  The dagger plunged into her heart, penetrating through her bulletproof vest.

  There was no pain, which was probably not good, and as she fell back down on the snowpack, she was able to lift her head and look at the inexplicable sight of the weapon's handle, still in the grip of that slayer's fist, sticking right out of her sternum.

  Oddly, she noted the way her breath exploded out of her in a white cloud, the exhale dissipating in the night as if it had been eaten. Or maybe that was her soul leaving her body?

  Her last image was of the lesser smiling down at her, its crazy eyes rapt with triumph, its lolling mouth leaking black blood as it started to laugh.

  And then its head exploded, bullets riddling it from some direction or another, bone getting pulverized, a fine mist of brain matter atomizing into the bitterly cold night air.

  That was it for her.

  She lost consciousness, a great black void swooping in, the Grim Reaper's robe curtaining down on her, its fabric so thick and heavy, she could neither fight nor deny it.

  Her final thought was that this was the precise, inevitable outcome she had predicted from the moment she had filled out the training center's application. The only surprise? That it had come so fucking soon.

  She'd been sure she would last at least a year or two.

  As soon as Peyton saw that slayer sit up, he knew there was trouble. And then there was the flash of the dagger blade over the undead's shoulder, that grotesque, gape-mouthed face stretching into a crazy grin of hatred.

  It was forever and an instant at the same time.

  He did not need precise arc measurements to extrapolate where that razor-sharp point was going to end up, and there was no stopping the inevitable. The weapon did its duty, impaling Novo in the chest, going right through her bulletproof vest, finding home in a horrible way--

  The sound of a gun going off at point-blank range rang loudly in his ears and he jumped back. But it wasn't the enemy. It was Paradise, standing strong and sure, doing her job: Her precisely put bullet blew apart the back of the slayer's head, bits and pieces of it falling like confetti, the black blood becoming a fine rain that landed like soot on the white snow.

  Except the fucking lesser fell forward, instead of back, going limp on top of Novo--and the dagger.

  As the blade penetrated even deeper, she jerked, her hands flopping, her legs kicking. And then nothing about her moved at all.

  "Call Manny!" Phury said as he lunged forward and pulled the lesser off. "Call the fucking--"

  "I have him now!" Craeg cut in.

  Peyton weaved on his boots as he saw the hilt of the dagger down tight to Novo's leather jacket. The blade was in so deep, none of the steel showed. She was going to die--if she wasn't dead already.

  And this was all his fault. Thanks to him, Paradise had disabled that enemy way too late.

  As his legs went out from under him, he was only aware of the structural failure of his lower body because his vantage point changed from high to ground level. Nothing in him registered--no physical sensations, that was. Emotionally...he was in a firestorm.

  Meanwhile, Zsadist jumped over and stabbed the remains of the lesser back to the Omega, and as the pop! and flash of light faded, everyone else got in close to Novo, crouching down, settling on one knee or both in the bloodstained snow. Peyton couldn't see much of her now, with Paradise and Craeg each taking one of her hands while Phury checked for a pulse and Boone settled in at her boots.

  Oh, God, that dagger. Sticking right out of her chest.

  Pey
ton swallowed through a dry throat. "Novo? Is she alive?"

  Stupid fucking thing to say. Then again, anything from him was a waste--

  Thundering footfalls. Coming up behind him.

  Wrenching around, he looked to the source of the fresh attack. Except, no, there was no one there; it was his heart beating in his chest, the panicked rhythm rebounding in his ears with pressure.

  Peyton raked his hand across his mouth and jerked open his leather jacket in the vain hope it would ease the suffocation in his lungs. Where was the fucking surgical unit?

  Standing up, he leaned in to see over the heads of the other fighters...and nearly wished he hadn't. Novo was as white as the snow, her eyes open and fixed on something in the middle distance above her. Was she seeing the Fade?

  Come back to us, he wanted to scream. Look away from the other side...stay here!

  And goddamn it, he hated the slayer blood on her face. He wanted to wipe it off her too-pale skin, cleaning her of the war, of his mistake, of these consequences.

  With a curse, he paced around, gripping his hair, pulling, pulling, pulling at it. His brain told him that if he could just think clearly enough, and picture himself exactly where he'd been standing when he'd made the bad call, he could somehow implant himself earlier in time--and undo this outcome by not trying to protect Paradise.

  And then they could all be still fighting--or maybe, with the skirmish having been won, they could be standing around in a flush of buzzy, trippy victory, preparing to find the next battle.

  "Is she alive," he said roughly. "Is she..."

  Novo started to cough, and the red blood that came out made him so dizzy, he went down to the snowy ground again. Lowering his head, he braced both hands in front of himself and got ready to vomit. But nauseous as he was, he didn't throw up.

  The rumble of the mobile surgical unit coming around the corner was like a choir of angels singing, and to make way, Peyton pushed himself across the snowpack until his back hit the wall of the nearest building. As the RV punched to a stop, Manny Manello burst out from behind the wheel, a duffel bag in his hand, a stethoscope around his neck.

  "Don't move her," the human barked.

  Instantly, everyone went hands-off, as if they didn't want to be the person who fucked shit up. And then they moved back to give the doctor room.

  Peyton stayed where he was, his hands locking on either side of his head so he could hold the deadweight of his skull up. When he blinked from time to time, it was the only way he changed position.