by Lili Zander
He squeezes my hand reassuringly. We get into an empty elevator, and he pulls a square box out of the pack, about the size of my palm. He pushes one of its buttons and then nods. “It’s safe to talk.”
Ragnar eyes the elevator’s control panel. “She’ll be on the twentieth floor,” he says, punching the button experimentally. It doesn’t light up. ‘Reserved for Staff Members,’ an automated voice intones.
Ragnar hits the nineteenth-floor button, and the elevator starts to rise. “Can you hack into it, Zeke?” He steps out of the way, and Zeke rummages through his pack for another piece of equipment. “Oh, never mind. Of course, you can. You got past a timer lock today.”
Zeke gets to work. “How do you know Gerra Clay’s on the twentieth floor?” I ask Ragnar.
“Magnificent views of Banrilia are reserved for the very rich,” he says dryly. “There are three underground floors in this building. That’s where the staff really works. No, the twentieth floor is invitation-only. And tonight, it’s been emptied for Gerra and her inner guard.”
Zeke’s device beeps. “Got it.” The elevator glides to a stop, and the doors open. “We’re here.”
The lobby was covered with mirrors and flooded with golden light. This floor, on the other hand, is dimly lit. The walls are lined with red silk. The furnishings are red and gold. Music plays through invisible speakers, a low, throbbing drumbeat that manages to sound both arousing and menacing.
Ragnar rolls his eyes. “This is the famous twentieth floor of Club Tranche? It looks like a low-end whorehouse. Gerra always had execrable taste.”
We round a corner, and run into our first guard, wearing the insignia of Family Clay. “For fuck’s sake, are the elevators malfunctioning again?” he asks, looking annoyed. “This floor is reserved. You shouldn’t be here.”
Ragnar rams into the guard. His right leg snaps up, and he punches a kick into the man’s solar plexus. The man staggers backward, slams into the wall, and crumples to the floor. Saber is there in seconds, pressing a needle into the man’s neck. “Anthurium,” he explains for my benefit. “It causes temporary paralysis.”
The entire thing has taken less than ten seconds. No wonder the vampires hadn’t been concerned about the weapons check. They don’t need them.
We head down the corridor. It twists and turns. We turn left, and then right, and then left again. There are doors on either side, but Zeke shakes his head, and we ignore them. “We’re in a maze,” he murmurs, looking at his screen. “Each door opens into a den of perversion.” His voice sharpens. “Incoming.”
It’s a pair of guards. Unlike the first guy, who assumed we were here by mistake, these two guards instinctively reach for their guns as soon as they see us. Then they realize they don’t have any. Thank you, weapons check.
That split second hesitation is all we need. Saber and Nero explode into action, charging into them. Saber locks his hands around his target’s neck and brings his knee up into the guy’s groin. Nero jabs his fist into his victim’s chest.
Both men drop to the floor. Saber administers the anthurium. “One of these days,” he says conversationally to Ragnar, “You must tell me how you got your hands on this. It’s supposed to be experimental.”
Ragnar barks a laugh and steps over the paralyzed guards. “Who do you think funds the research?”
We fight our way through a dozen guards. Well, not me. I watch the masterclass unfold in front of me in awe. These are Gerra Clay’s elite guards, and the vampires are going through them with brutal efficiency. Soldiers appear; Ragnar, Saber, and Nero dispatch them. Zeke shields me and keeps an eye on his equipment at the same time. “Is it supposed to be this easy?” I whisper to him.
He watches Ragnar aim a swift kick at a soldier’s neck. “I’ve never seen him fight,” he says, a tone of admiration in his voice. “It’s pretty impressive.”
A soldier spots me, and his eyes light up. I’m the weak link, and he knows it. He charges me, moving with vampire speed. Before I can react, Zeke sweeps his foot out. The man crashes to the ground. Zeke locks his hands around the vampire’s neck and twists. I turn my head away; I can’t watch.
I hear the distinctive crunch of bones breaking, and then Zeke joins me again. “Targeting you is a very bad idea.” He holds up his hand. “We’re here. Through that door.”
In our briefing on Gao 69P, Ragnar had warned us what to expect. “There will be twenty guards,” he’d said. “No weapons. Even Gerra has to respect the no-weapon rule at Club Tranche. The guards aren’t chosen for skill but for loyalty.” His expression had been disgusted. “Even among Family Clay, Gerra’s addiction to human children is a dirty little secret, one they would prefer to keep hidden. There will be no cameras.”
So far, things have gone exactly to plan. I’m still nervous, but I’m starting to relax.
Then we push open the door to Gerra’s private lounge, and my calm evaporates.
There are three children in the room with her. One of them, a little girl who cannot be older than three, is slumped on the floor at her feet, obviously dead.
Another, a boy who looks about four, is on her lap, his eyes glazed. Gerra’s head is bent over his neck, and she’s drinking.
Draining him.
Killing him.
In one corner of the room, chained to the wall, is another little girl. Her hair is reddish brown. Her dress is torn. Tear marks have left tracts on her dirt-smudged face.
She’s waiting her turn.
Ragnar takes in the room, and his expression darkens. “Hello, cousin.”
The vampire lifts her head slowly. Her fangs glisten with blood, and her eyes are blank. For a long second, she doesn’t recognize the man standing in front of her, and then she laughs. “Ragnar,” she says, her voice high-pitched and shrill. “Welcome, cousin.” She laughs again, the sound wild and insane. “Are you joining me for a meal?” She locks her hands around the boy. “This one is mine, but there’s more where he came from. My guards can fetch you a tasty treat.”
Great Spirit, she’s high as a kite.
Ragnar steps toward her. “Slenti mixed with blood,” he says, his nostrils flaring. “And what else? Delirium and nocturne. That’s one hell of a cocktail. Let go of the boy.”
“Or what?” She giggles. “You can’t touch me. We have a peace pact.”
Saber and Nero guard the door. Zeke moves to the girl chained to the wall, and crouches by her, blocking her view. “Hey there,” he says, his voice gentle. “What’s your name?”
She stares at him blankly. My heart lurches.
“Not any longer. Astrid gave me permission to break it.” Ragnar’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “There is no peace pact to hide behind anymore, Gerra. You remember the conversation we had when I came of age?”
She blinks. She’s a member of the Ruling Council. Her grandmother was Empress. All her life, she’s been treated as if she matters. All her life, people have deferred to her. Vampires have bowed to her, and humans groveled in front of her, and she’s started to believe that she’s immune from consequences.
No longer.
There is murder in Ragnar’s eyes. Cold rage in Saber’s expression. No mercy on either Nero or Zeke’s faces. I’ve seen this expression on my vampires’ faces once when we’d boarded Gratvar’s cargo ship, and Nero had found out that the children were headed to Banrilia. Nero had beaten the slaver, a massive, hulking, three-hundred-pound mountain of a man, to death with his bare hands.
Gerra Clay is a fool. A crazy, deluded fool, because she’s sitting on the couch, her wits addled by the drugs she’s taken, mistakenly clutching to the belief that nothing has changed. That she’s going to walk out of here alive.
She’s not.
“Because I do,” Ragnar continues. “We were on Starra, remember? And I warned you about this habit of yours. I promised you that there would be consequences, and you swore to me that the rumors weren’t true. You didn’t drink from children, you said to me. You followed the law.
Everyone you drank from was of age and gave consent. Remember that conversation, Gerra?”
“Spare me the lectures,” she drawls. Oh, the fool. She still thinks she has a chance. “They’re so boring.” She sets the boy aside, and Nero swoops in and grabs him before she can react. He slices his wrist and holds it to the little boy’s mouth, feeding him some of his own blood. Color slowly returns to the boy’s face.
Gerra frowns in puzzlement. “What happened to you, Ragnar? You used to be interesting. Now, you’re just so self-righteous.” She nudges the dead little girl with her foot. “It’s just a human. We’re predators; they’re prey. That’s the natural order of things. Stop fighting it.”
She kicked the dead child. My nails dig into my palms so hard they draw blood. Ragnar’s gaze snaps to Gerra’s foot. “I thought I’d offer you a quick and merciful death, cousin. I was going to break your neck with my hands, but you don’t deserve that kindness.”
He draws himself to his full height. “I could break every bone in your body,” he muses. “I could make you beg for death. But you’re drugged, and that would be torture, and I don’t think Raven has the stomach for it.”
His gaze rests on mine, and in a rush, I know what he’s going to say next. I know what he’s going to do; I know how Gerra Clay is going to die.
Ragnar reaches into his coat and pulls out a pair of syringes. “Raven, could I trouble you for some of your blood?”
My gut roils. I don’t think I can do this.
Except there’s a certain symmetry about this death. A certain justice. Gerra Clay has gorged herself on human children. One of them lies dead at her feet.
This is the right way for her to die.
I wordlessly take the needles from Ragnar and slide the tip of one into a vein in my wrist. The barrel fills with blood. Gerra’s gaze locks on it, and she licks her lips. She’s so gripped by blood lust, so high on the drug-alcohol cocktail she’s taken, that even now, she doesn’t fully recognize what’s happening.
Zeke is still crouched protectively by the chained girl. She’s frozen, completely traumatized by what’s happened in front of her eyes tonight. Did the first little girl, the dead one at Gerra’s feet struggle for her life? Did she cry out when Gerra’s fangs descended?
“Let her watch, Zeke. She needs to see this.”
“Raven, she’s traumatized.”
“I know.” I know trauma. I was ten when I went into the re-education camps. I've seen things I want to forget. I’ve lived through things I rather not think about. I'm an expert on trauma. “She's already traumatized. This will provide a sense of closure.”
I don’t need two syringes. One drop of my blood is all Gerra needs. I still fill the second barrel. “You know,” I whisper. “Once upon a time, I couldn’t have done this. Once upon a time, I thought no one deserved this death. I was wrong.”
My middle name is Peace. My parents taught me to love. This vampire—this woman sitting in front of me, licking her lips, greedily coveting my blood—she’s taught me to hate.
I’m a fucking good student.
Ragnar moves out of the way, and I toss the syringe to Gerra. She catches it clumsily and brings it to her nose. Her nostrils flare. “So tempting,” she says dreamily. “So very tempting.”
“Drink it.” I hold up the second syringe. “There’s more where it came from.”
She plunges the needle into her arm. For a second, her expression fills with bliss. “Yes,” she murmurs. “So sweet. So perfect.”
Then she screams.
When Olaf drank from me, boils appeared on his skin. They got bigger and bigger as I watched, horror-stricken, and then they burst, and a green liquid leaked out of them. He died in agony, his entire body covered in burns. His screams still ring in my ears.
In the throes of bloodlust, Gerra wanted the hit so badly that she didn’t drink. She injected, in search of a faster fix.
She shouldn’t have.
She swells up, as if the boils are forming inside her body. In seconds, she’s unrecognizable. Her skin turns a sick shade of green. Her shrieks fill the room, and then they’re abruptly cut off. Her clothes tear. She tries to stand, but her legs give away as if…
Great Spirit, the virus is melting her bones. It is transforming the vampire into sludge.
The little girl stares avidly. There’s a wild, exultant look in her eyes. “Kill,” she whispers. “Kill.”
“Yes,” I reply, forcing myself to watch. To bear witness to a death I caused, a death I do not regret causing. “She’s being killed.”
“Get back,” Ragnar says, his voice sharp. “Get out now.”
We scramble to the door, only just in time.
Gerra Clay explodes like a piece of overripe fruit.
The words of the Prayer of the Long Night hover at the tip of my tongue. Sing your death song, vampire. Die like a hero going home. I choke them back. Gerra Clay doesn’t deserve the protection of my ancestors on her journey to the afterlife.
“It’s done,” Ragnar says flatly.
All of a sudden, I can’t take it anymore. There’s more work to be done, I know. Gerra mentioned more children. They’re somewhere in this club. We need to find them. The guards—Gerra Clay’s most loyal troops—will need to be arrested. There are probably consequences to what we did. We’ll need to bear them.
But I can’t process it. I don’t want to be here. I want to be on the Valiant. Strangely, it’s the only place that feels like home.
“I need to go,” I murmur. “I need to get out of here.”
Saber takes one look at my face and nods immediately. “I’ll come with you.”
“No, it’s okay.”
There’s movement at the door, and then Team Gamma marches down the corridor, along with Nehal Kuri and Stefan van der Klein. “We have an exit prepared, Sir,” Egon Dalsgaard says, saluting Ragnar. “The floors are on lockdown, and we’ve taken out Club Tranche’s security.”
Ragnar gives me a troubled look. “Are you okay, Raven?”
“I’m fine.” The room feels far away. Everything is muffled. I just really need to be somewhere else. Somewhere where Gerra Clay’s remains don’t drip down the walls. “My blood is a weapon. I understand that.”
His eyes rest on me, then he nods crisply. “Nehal, Stefan, escort Raven back to base,” he orders. “Shut down the spaceports. I’m taking possession of Banrilia. Get a med-team in here. There are children in this building, and I don’t know how many there are, and in what condition we’ll find them.”
“This way. Please come with me.” Nehal takes my elbow and steers me through the corridors. Soldiers with weapons flank me on either side. I move on autopilot as we make our way out of Club Tranche and back across Banrilia in a skimmer. I feel stretched. Thin. My emotions feel like they’re ready to burst, the way Gerra Clay had. My eyes prickle, and my throat is dry, and it’s only when I see the Valiant that I feel myself relax.
A long shower. Some mindless holo-shows. Maybe the next episode of Forbidden Love. Maybe then I’ll feel normal again. Maybe then I’ll forget the way Gerra had nudged that dead little girl with her foot, as if she were nothing.
“Can we get you anything?” Nehal’s voice is very gentle. “Food? Slenti? A sleeping draught? Anything at all?”
“I’ll be fine. I just need to be alone.” I climb up the ramp, and they let me go, though they’re still frowning in concern. I feel the weight of their gazes on my back. They saw Gerra’s body, what was left of it. Do they know that I did it? Do they know I signed her death warrant the second I slid the needle into my vein?
Stop it. Gerra Clay deserved her death.
I walk into Ragnar’s bedroom. Marya Revit’s sitting on the mattress, spinning a knife between her fingers. “Hello, Raven.”
31
Raven
“You know,” Marya says conversationally, “I thought I’d have to fight my way through Ragnar’s soldiers. Yet here you are, all alone.” She shakes her head. “Sloppy secur
ity. Heads will roll over this.”
She’s right; I’ve made a fatal mistake. I desperately wanted to be alone, and because of that, Nehal and Stefan had neglected to search the Valiant. This is my fault.
Marya gets to her feet, still spinning the black blade between her fingers. “Threats are boring,” she says calmly. “I don’t like making them. You’re not a fool. I can hurt you in a thousand ways. I can make you scream with pain. By the time I’m done, you’ll wish you were dead.”
Marya Revit is stronger than me. She’s faster than me. She’s better trained. But she’s not braver than me. I survived the ice deserts. I survived the re-education camps. And if Levitan puts me in a cage, I will survive long enough for Saber, Zeke, and Nero to rescue me.
I force a bored note into my voice. “For someone who supposedly doesn’t like making threats, you’re certainly making a lot of them.”
She eyes me with grudging respect and then gestures with the knife. “Head to the cockpit, please.”
I lead the way. She follows me. As I walk, my mind feverishly runs through options. What can I do? I’m unarmed. The daggers Saber gave me are back in the bedroom, stowed inside the closet. Nero and Zeke have been teaching me hand-to-hand combat, and I’m getting better at it, but I’m not delusional. Marya’s got a knife, and she’s on high alert. I’ll get hurt for no reason.
Pretend you’re cowed. Wait for her to be distracted.
And then what? I have no idea. I’ll just have to make it up as I go along. I’ve been doing a lot of that ever since I met Zeke, Nero, and Saber.
We reach the cockpit. “Stand there,” Marya orders, pointing to the wall on the other side of the co-pilot’s chair. “Don’t move.”
I obey wordlessly. She punches a red button, and I hear the screeching of metal against metal as the ramp closes. Shouts of alarm sound in the hanger. Too late. Marya’s already on the comm system. “Ground control,” she says. “This is the Albatross requesting a slot for take-off. This is an emergency. Code Alpha-Psi-Epsilon-One-Three-Nine.”