SURVIVAL

by Karen Payton Holt

  As the small company of guardsmen moved around the room and bore Sebastian away, Connor said, “Marksmen? I’m getting the impression you have done this before, Julian.”

  “What are the marksmen for?” slurred Anthony, still having trouble forming his tongue into shapes needed for speech.

  “They will have tungsten carbide tipped cartridges in high-powered rifles. Armor-piercing rounds. If either combatant descends into grave sleep, they will go for a headshot.” Julian’s tone was brisk.

  “Nice,” muttered Connor. “And how will they know?”

  “A probe in the base of your skull – into the brainstem – will read the brain activity.”

  “Ah. Any other little gems I should know about?” joked Connor.

  “Apart from the fact that you will be wearing very few clothes and have your skin oiled to deflect the blade strikes, no.”

  Connor circled the room in a tornado-burst of energy, arriving in front of Julian and standing toe-to-toe, an ironic smile whitened his cheekbones. “Thanks, friend.”

  Julian’s hand shot out to grip Connor’s arm. “All joking aside. Don’t underestimate Sebastian. He’s as slippery as an eel.”

  “I know.” Connor’s eyes narrowed as he manipulated the chunk of granite buried beneath the skin of his side, residing there like a golf ball-sized tumor – a momento of Sebastian’s blade strike in their last conflict. “He is like a cancer, mutating and infecting everything he touches. I’m ready for him.”

  Julian nodded, satisfied.

  Connor turned to Sebastian’s latest casualty. “Anthony, are you up for being my second?” He searched the brown eyes for the familiar cast of an iron will. “I need someone who can throw me a knife without taking my eye out, and…” Connor raised his eyebrows in a mocking expression of shocked revelation. “Julian throws like a girl.”

  They all knew Julian would be presiding over the duel, but he still swallowed a wave of indignation, masking his moment of gullibility with a grin. “Marius will send out another escort if we don’t get moving.”

  It was Connor’s turn to grin and bear it when Julian landed a playful blow on the back of his head before the three vampires moved as one towards the door.

  Chapter 31

  Julian took the lead and, flanked by Connor and Anthony, headed quickly across London through Hyde Park, finally pausing at the bottom of the steps at the Prince Consort Road entrance to the Royal Albert Hall. The stairway glistened as the night air laid a carpet of dewdrops over the cold granite. The broad sweep of stone steps was punctuated by flat elevations, until, at the top, the eagle eye of a towering charcoal-black statue of Prince Albert looked into your very soul.

  As Julian said, this is about love, thought Connor. Albert had died of typhoid fever at the age of forty-two, and been forced to abandon his beloved Victoria to a gray existence. I have no intention of dying again, here today, and leaving my Rebekah to that fate.

  Standing at the feet of the cast-iron likeness of Albert, Connor swept his eyes over the night sky. The enchanting effect of the Northern Lights which caused gasps of pleasure in humans were seen every night by vampire eyes. Dawn’s fingers laid a determined pink haze across the canvas, like an artist rubbing away at a blackened window pane to let the light struggle through; nothing would deny it passage, and darkness would be eroded by that invisible hand, until sunshine yellow and bright blue filled the sky. The inevitability of dawn.

  “They are safe?” Connor’s deep voice rumbled like an earthquake inside his chest. Even with the jurors onside, speaking of Rebekah and Leizle felt like a risk.

  Julian listened to the whispered anticipation of the assembled vampires seeping out through the stone facade of the hall, before responding in a low whisper. “Yes. They are safe.”

  “And they know they must wait until we come for them?”

  Julian put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Connor, they are safe.” Julian grinned. “Even Seren seems to know to stay quiet. Although, it appears she doesn’t feel pain and she does not cry. Which is just as well, because she doesn’t sleep much, either.”

  “I know. She’s a law unto herself,” Connor said in an awed tone, his gray eyes alight with pride.

  Anthony shuffled his feet impatiently and coughed.

  “They are waiting, Connor,” said Julian.

  Looking towards the magnificently appointed double front doors, Connor absorbed the atmosphere. He took in every detail, fully appreciating the gravitas of the moment. He was about to step over the threshold into this impressive oval-shaped edifice and fight for his life, and his love.

  The Hall was constructed in terracotta-red brickwork. Like an American wedding cake, it ascended in tiers of arched windows framed with cream colored stone, each one narrower than the one below. The dramatic facade drew the eye upwards, to finally rest upon the pièce de résistance, the huge 135 foot glass dome. It glittered in the moonlight as though it was sculpted in ice. The littering of stars thrown into the night sky looked like diamond-hued chips which had sprayed from the chisel blade that carved it.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Connor said.

  “Connor, when we get inside, the guardsmen will detain you as the ‘accused’ and escort you to your chamber to prepare for the contest.”

  Julian waited for his friend’s curt nod before he stepped forward and pounded three times on the solid wood paneled door.

  “Who calls upon the council to answer?” An officious voice gusted through the cracks and crevices of the portal.

  “Someone enjoys pomp and ceremony,” Connor muttered.

  Julian spared a glowering look before he joined the performance. “Principal Julian commands entry.” As his words faded, the imposing doors silently drifted open.

  The vampire doorman stepped back and Captain Gerrard took charge. His blue eyes lasered into Connor’s as he said, “If Doctor Connor will come this way.”

  Anticipation of the battle hit home like a clenched fist in Connor’s gut. He could no longer stand still and, hurtling forward, his sudden acceleration scattered his escort of guardsmen like pins in an alley.

  Captain Gerrard peeled away from the group and instinctively fell in beside Connor. A guardian with a charge to deliver? Or a hunter glued to his prey? The wrong-footed guardsmen circled back into the appropriate formation and raced to catch up.

  Connor swallowed a bark of laughter as Julian’s words echoed through the hallway. “Fall in and do your job, you numbskulls.”

  “Did you know Captain Laurence?” While they were alone, Connor decided to lay the ghost.

  Captain Gerrard nodded curtly. “I did.”

  “I did not want to kill him...” Connor’s glance unveiled genuine regret. “In other circumstances, I would not have needed to.”

  “I was apprised of the situation. Jurors Marius and Alexander made it clear the battle was ill conceived by Councilor Serge.”

  Connor hung onto an impassive expression, suppressing a wave of distaste which rose at the mention of the councilor.

  Captain Gerrard paused, before adding, “I agree with the jurors.”

  Grimacing wryly, Connor asked, “And the marksmen?” He stopped moving and turned to face the captain. “Captain Laurence’s elite squad?”

  Gerrard cut to the chase, his tone crisp as he said, “All Special Air Services trained. All turned by Captain Laurence, himself.” He compressed his lips in an ironic smile. “They earned ‘elite squad’ by the number of ‘impossible’ missions they came through unscathed when pretending to be human. Each man was handpicked by Captain Laurence, and was loyal to him.”

  “Note to self,” Connor wore his best poker face as he added, “watch my back.” Does Julian know, I wonder? I will bet on ‘not’. “And, how does this work? Why four marksmen?”

  “One for each compass point, to cover all the angles. The target zones are eye sockets, face, or ear canal. Base of skull at a push.” Captain Gerrard shrugged. “There is no hiding place o
ut there. But, above all else, Doctor Connor, they are professionals. You will have only one enemy in the arena today, you can rest easy on that.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I remain skeptical,” Connor replied as he burst into action again.

  Captain Gerrard kept pace and then overtook him, cutting across Connor’s stride and herding him down another corridor where a row of cream-colored doors punctuated the wall. Stopping outside the last door, the captain said, “You will find everything you need inside. Please do not leave the room.”

  Connor paused with his hand on the door handle. “Where is Sebastian now?” he asked.

  “This is ‘stage left’ of the orchestra pit. Challenger Sebastian is ‘stage right’. You will not meet until you enter the arena.” Captain Gerrard dipped into his breast pocket and pulled out a gold watch. “You have eight minutes.”

  The metal inside the door-catch shrieked with disuse when Connor turned the handle. “Nice watch,” he tossed over his shoulder, as he pushed the door open.

  “My grandfather’s,” replied the captain as it dropped out of sight back into the pocket. Turning on his heel, he disappeared from view.

  “Some hope, then,” muttered Connor. Sentimentality is good.

  He stepped into the room and surveyed the preparations laid out before him.

  A dead expression settled on his face as he moved quickly. Eight minutes. He stripped, and, standing naked, liberally applied oil over every inch of his solid frame. Sinews stretched as he contorted his body into extreme poses, limbering up and reacquainting his psyche with how each tendon behaved under duress. He massaged every muscle, working the pewter-colored flecks of the gray oil into his skin until he resembled a life-sized soldier, cast in lead.

  He wiped his hands on a chamois leather cloth before delving into a jar of grease. Distributing it evenly over his palms, he ran his fingers through his hair, combing it back from his strong brow and pushing through to his nape until he had tamed the thick black filaments into a slick skullcap. The chill of his scalp thickened the grease to a hard gel which held his hair firmly in place.

  Finally, he stepped into the black leather loincloth which molded to his hips and supported his groin. The modesty flap of soft pigskin clung to his contours, slipping like satin over steel, and allowing his thick thighs to move freely.

  Stretching out his triceps and deltoids, Connor twisted, enjoying the cracking of the cartilage in each of his joints, and relishing the explosive release of tension. He frowned as he manipulated his side, again investigating the dehydrated knot of heavy tissue he carried as a grim reminder of Sebastian’s blade. My hands were tied on that occasion, I wasn’t allowed to kill him.

  A feral grin clung to his silver-tinted face and his eyes darkened. As pleasure rippled through his honed musculature, he sprang into a series of six feet high tuck jumps, landing each one silently. The eight minutes are up.

  “Showtime,” breathed Connor. He swung open the door, confronting Captain Gerrard, who froze with his hand raised, about to rap his knuckles on it.

  Connor cocked a brow and prompted, “Eight minutes, Captain. Let’s go.”

  The corridors whipped into a time warp tunnel as Connor’s fluid gait devoured the distance. The black curtains which hung from the platform of the stage, hiding the inner workings of the theatrical process from the view of the audience, parted at his approach by invisible hands, as though his forceful presence repelled them, and he stepped out into the arena.

  He advanced with a long, relaxed stride, his fingertips brushing his thighs and his core muscles braced. His chest and abdomen appeared cast in metal as a deep inhalation swelled his girth and he raised his chin in an attitude of confrontation.

  Connor stopped one quarter of the distance towards the center of the oval polished-wood floor which lined the belly of the Royal Albert Hall. It measured eighty-six yards in length, from the facade of the upper circle to the huge pipe organ which dwarfed the staging area.

  As he stared along the longest axis, Connor’s acute vision made out the misshapen contours of Sebastian’s shattered cheekbone and the hollows where his teeth no longer supported his face.

  His situation mirrored Sebastian’s, who was similarly attired. Although he was shorter than Connor by three inches, and his build was more wiry than muscular, he too, exuded dangerous intent. His skin was stained with a copper dye and he resembled a statue cast in bronze.

  The dramatic figures suited the surroundings, but, there was a more serious purpose to their appearances. The colors are by design. The marksmen need to know which head they are aiming at, and the ‘seconds’ need to know whose hand they are tossing the weapons to.

  The gallery bordering the arena extended at a thirty-degree angle, and in a seemingly endless number of occupied seats, rows of pale faces lined the circumference. The boxes of the dress circle, with their heavy brocade curtains in cream and gold, lined the vertical facades on three sides. Inside each one, ashen gray features were buried in shadow, their keen eyes glinting with the reflective hunger of predators. A full house. But, I don’t know if the acoustics are great... there’s nothing to hear.

  The silence oozed to occupy the spaces inside the hall. As dead air, devoid of currents, filtered into Connor’s head and settled against his eardrums, his skin cried out for sensation.

  Connor rolled the balls of his bare feet over the polished oak floor and the soft crunching sound of cartilage concentrated his mind.

  He scanned the arena, familiarizing himself with the battle zone. As his ‘second’, Anthony’s position was ten yards back, on Connor’s right shoulder. He stood behind a chest high toughened steel screen which shielded the combat tools he would deliver into Connor’s hand when it was time.

  A youthful-looking vampire played the same role for Sebastian. I guess, Serge is of no use, having only one arm. Connor stared at the youngster, and the focused intensity in the eyes gave him pause. He honed in on the vampire’s odor; the combination of parchment and granite dust, like carbon dating, was the measure of aging in vampire skin. Older than Sebastian, then, maybe sixty-five years. His sixteen human years mean nothing.

  He picked out each of the four marksmen. The one positioned behind him, and the other behind Sebastian, were elevated in the sixth row of the gallery, with an area of dead space around them as though the seriousness etched into their faces created a force-field. The remaining pair were at battlefield level, to his left and right, behind the boards marking the boundary of the combat space.

  Three of the faces were familiar to him. Two of the marksmen had laid their hands on him that night in the meadow. And now, one has a shattered kneecap, and the other has broken ribs. Great!

  Marius and Alexander flanked the marksman’s position halfway along the curved edge of the arena on Connor’s right side. Julian and Captain Gerrard stood beside the marksman at the midpoint on his left. A radio antenna extended from a console beside Julian, with standing space behind for the operator. Presumably the receiver for the transmitted signal from the brainstem probes.

  Finally, there was movement.

  A vampire approached from behind, but Connor’s gut reaction was that there was no threat, and Charles, the small vampire from the blood dispensary, who Connor always thought of as a terrier, appeared at his side.

  Julian’s voice whispered inside Connor’s head as he announced the tasks which Charles was about to perform.

  Ah, the famous acoustics. Connor quirked an appreciative eyebrow in Julian’s direction, knowing that even at thirty yards, Julian would see it.

  “Blood technician Charles will insert a probe into the base of each combatant’s skull.” He looked from Connor to Sebastian, and back again. “If either combatant descends into grave sleep, the duel is over. The marksmen will end it with a shot to the target areas on the head.” Julian stared hard at Sebastian’s bronzed, oiled form burnishing in the light. “Sebastian, as ‘the challenger’, your code-color is ‘red’.”

 
Sebastian nodded his understanding.

  Julian’s eyes drew a line across the thirty yards of polished wooden floor to alight on Connor. The silver accents in the gray paint picked out his muscle definition as he stood still as a statue. “Your code color, Doctor Connor, is black.”

  Connor jerked his chin in acknowledgement, glad that Julian had not called him by the correct title, ‘the accused’. He knows how much that would rankle.

  Julian checked the marksmen were paying attention before issuing the directive, “Charles, you may proceed.”

  Connor smiled reassuringly.

  Charles picked out a black metal disc with a needle protruding from the center. “The needle will be inserted below the brainstem, into the spinal cord. It will not hurt, but you may hear the cartilage grinding when I push it home.”

  It looked like steel, but Connor knew better, his tissue would not succumb to something so soft. Depleted uranium, maybe.

  Directing his narrowed gaze over Charles’ head, assessing Sebastian’s smile. Connor said quietly, “I’m not turning my back.” His ribcage rattled with the low frequency of the growl punctuating his words.

  Charles nodded and moved around Connor’s considerable bulk. “Code ‘black’. This eliminates the chances of mistaken identity,” he murmured.

  With a grunt, Connor dropped to one knee, lowering his chin to his chest to make a space between the base of his skull and the first vertebrae. Charles pushed the needle home, and Connor opened and closed his jaw to ease the pressure inside his head.

  Handing Connor three glass tubes filled with blood, Charles said, “One human, and two animal. It will take a few minutes before rehydration kicks in.” His face folded into a lopsided grin. “But, you know that, of course.”

  As the small vampire moved to the other end of the arena and repeated the procedure on Sebastian, Connor watched. It’s a big responsibility for the young man. Duels are a once-in-a-century occurrence.