I sit back down.
He addresses Chael. Avery was my good friend. I loved him as a brother. But he had a flaw. He felt it necessary to exercise complete control over everyone within his sphere of influence. He attempted to control Anna Strong. He kidnapped her human partner, bled him almost to the point of death. He burned her home. He committed acts that could have brought unwanted and harmful attention to the vampire community. Anna Strong staked him in defense of her life. The act, while regrettable, was justifiable.
I’m surprised to hear him defending me. And surprised that he knew the story. Well, most of it. He didn’t mention how Avery came back and attempted to kill me a second time. It’s possible he doesn’t know. Where did he get his information? From Warren Williams?
Warren Williams.
It’s not over yet.
Chael accepts Turnbull’s pronouncement. About Avery. And what of Warren Williams? Our newly turned sister, his widow, tells us their relationship was contentious. She tells us Anna Strong was the last to see him alive.
I wait, tension bunching my shoulders. Turnbull isn’t jumping to my defense this time. When at last he speaks, it is quietly and with great sorrow.
Warren Williams was a man who was able to navigate both the human and vampire worlds and be a friend to both. He defended the human community in his role as law officer—and did so for two hundred years. As a vampire, he worked tirelessly as head of the Watchers.
We may never know how he met his end. It is true, Anna Strong was with him shortly before his death. I can say no more than that. There are no witnesses and no evidence to prove guilt or innocence.
Chael’s dead eyes flash. How is it then that she is allowed to stand unchallenged as the Chosen?
Turnbull turns to face me. She is not. A challenge has been issued. She is called to defend her innocence in the way proscribed in the Grimoire. Anna Strong, do you accept the challenge?
My thoughts whip out to him. Don’t I get the chance to defend myself against the charges first? I had nothing to do with Williams’ death. It was at the hand of another.
Is this other a vampire?
A sorcerer.
Do you have proof? Witnesses?
I shake my head. I killed the one responsible. I think of Lance, of his betrayal. There is one other who knows the truth. But I don’t know where he is. Give me time to find him.
Turnbull shakes his head. This must be decided on the day of the becoming. It is written.
Fuck it is written. I lean toward him, fists clenched. I am not guilty.
Then you will survive the challenge. That, too, is written.
I knew this was coming. I tried to prepare. But reality crushes me under the sudden weight of fear.
Because of some ancient book and two thousand years of vampire folklore, I may be dead before dawn.
CHAPTER 45
I’m facing thirteen pairs of staring eyes. Waiting for my reaction, no doubt. They heard my exchange with Turnbull.
They don’t care.
For the first time, they allow emotion to show on their faces. Some are thoughtful, some are indifferent. Some, like Chael, are excited, aroused. He is looking forward to the fight. He expects me to lose.
He made the challenge.
I face him. Why?
A smile as cold as his eyes. You have no right to be here. You are too new. One of us should have been allowed to assume the mantle. The time of the vampire is at hand. You stand in the way of what should be.
He speaks as if I’ve already lost. And what of the Grimoire? Of the Chosen One?
Superstition. We have lived under the mortal yoke too long. It’s time to assume our rightful place. We are gods among men and it is time they acknowledge it. It is time the world acknowledges it.
I think I know that speech. You borrow Hitler’s play-book?
A shadow passes over his features. You prove my point, Anna Strong. When I was told of Avery, of Williams, I knew you could not be allowed to ascend. You place human life above all else. You choose man over your own kind. You are unworthy.
I glance around to see how the others are reacting to our exchange. No outrage. No objection. No indignation. The heads of the thirteen tribes are like sheep under the spell of a wolf.
And why shouldn’t they be? Nothing that happens today will alter their lives. Not really. If I win, it’s business as usual. If Chael wins, they assume dominance in every part of the world.
Frey’s words come back to me. Show them who you are.
Time to swallow the fear and show them who I am.
Chael waits with the patience of a sphinx. Power emanates from him, the power of a thousand years. He is calm. Confident.
I allow the beast to spring forth. Let’s get this party started.
When he understands what I’m saying, he laughs. You think I will fight you? I would not sully my hands with your worthless life. You will fight another.
He waves a hand. From behind me comes the sound of a door scraping open. I turn to see a section of a bookcase swing inward on a rusty track.
Light shines from the room, illuminating what looks like an amphitheater. It’s not very big, maybe twenty square feet, with bench seats around the perimeter. All that’s missing is a crowd chanting “Caesar.”
Or “Chael.”
I turn to him. You’re kidding. An arena? Am I fighting a vampire or a lion?
Oh, you’re fighting a vampire. He calls out to someone inside the room. Bring him in.
A familiar scent.
My body recognizes it before my mind. Muscles tense. Blood turns hot with fury.
He steps into the light. I’m sorry, Anna.
Lance.
I don’t know whether to howl with eagerness or dismay. I see the logic behind Chael’s choice. He thinks I will be at a disadvantage because Lance was my lover. He thinks I cannot kill a lover.
He thinks wrong.
Chael doesn’t know what Underwood did to me. He doesn’t know the connection between Lance and Williams and Underwood.
Otherwise, he would have chosen another. He would have known that I have sworn to kill Lance.
I let Chael see the glimmer of satisfaction on my face. You have made a grave mistake. You may have had a thousand years to acquire wisdom, but your arrogance has clouded your judgment.
For the first time, he looks into my face, really looks into my face, and the realization that he may have made an error cracks his smug mask of confidence. Admitting it, however, will never happen. He steps back, waves his hand. Let us begin.
Us? Is that a joke? The euphemism sparks a short bark of mirthless laughter. Why don’t you and I have a go at it first?
Turnbull steps between us, forcing Chael to take another step back. He places a hand on my arm and ushers me into the room. A room I never knew existed. It’s cold inside and smells of dirt and neglect. There is another scent, too. Blood. A shudder runs through me. What did Avery use it for? It’s another reminder of how good Avery was at hiding things from me. I can’t believe I let that monster touch me. I can’t believe I thought I loved him.
All these thoughts go through my head because I don’t want to think about the one standing, waiting, in the center of the room.
Another monster I thought I loved.
Lance does not move, does not try to communicate with me. He’s stripped to his shorts, his feet are bare. In his hand is a pointed stake.
Turnbull whispers to me, “Do you wish to change?”
“Into what? Or is titillation one of the perks of this freak show?”
He lets a smile touch his mouth. “I like you, Anna Strong. You cut through the crap. But I don’t make the rules. Like you, I’m new to the fraternity. How you wish to fight is up to you.”
His head is bowed close to my ear. He’s talking in sotto voce and in English. I’m guessing it’s to prevent the foreign delegates from understanding the exchange. He’s drawn a cloak around his thoughts for the same reason.
Ch
ael sees it and is not pleased. He says again, It is time to begin.
The benches are all occupied. The heads of the tribes are seated close enough to catch any drop of blood that might spray their way, to get maximum enjoyment from the pain we will inflict on each other. I am disgusted by the eagerness shining from their faces, by the taste of their excitement as they anticipate what is to come. I am disgusted to think that when I win, I will have to be one of them.
When I win.
I must be channeling Frey.
The thought of him brings a smile to my lips.
Lance’s quiet voice reaches to me. “I do not want this. I have no choice.”
When I turn to face him, I’m struck once more by his beauty. His face and body gleam in the light. He might be Jupiter or Apollo stripped for battle. Instead, he’s Janus, treacherous, a betrayer. “You have a choice. You had a choice before. You chose Underwood.”
“You lied to me.”
“What?”
“You didn’t trust me enough to let me know what you had done. That you had gone to Julian and made a bargain. If you had trusted me, none of it would have happened.”
I have to swallow down the anger before I can speak again. “Don’t you dare suggest what happened in Biarritz was my fault. You drugged me and turned me over to that freak. You stood by while he attempted to rape me. Then you ran like a dog when it didn’t go the way you planned. What I did, I did to protect you. What you did, you did to protect yourself.”
The tribal heads are growing restless. Most don’t understand what is passing between Lance and me. The few that do, don’t care. They want the blood sport to begin. I feel their impatience grow.
“I don’t want to fight you,” Lance whispers. “But I don’t want to die, either.”
There is a fleeting moment when I wonder what would happen if I proclaimed to the gathering that the one who can corroborate my story about Williams is here. Would Lance lie? It doesn’t matter. One way or the other, justice must be done. “You should have thought of that before you let Underwood touch me.”
Turnbull comes up behind me, hands me a stake similar to the one in Lance’s hand. Are you ready?
I nod. Lance straightens, tightens his grip on the stake.
Begin.
Lance moves first. He lunges toward me, but it’s a clumsy move and I only have to sidestep to avoid the stake he holds in front of him like a dagger. I follow with a side kick to the small of his back and he goes down to his knees in the dirt.
He doesn’t know how to fight. His boyish good looks and the protection of a five-hundred-year-old vampire have atrophied the animal instinct. He stumbles to his feet, whirls to face me. For the first time, he lets anger unleash the beast.
Anger isn’t enough. As a human, I learned how to protect myself. It was and is part of my job as a bounty hunter. The second time Lance comes at me, I grab his hand and twist his arm back until I feel the shoulder pop.
He yelps and pushes back against me to lessen the pain.
I could stake him now. Thrust his own weapon through his back and into his heart. End this charade.
Those watching know it, too. They are furious that the fight may be over so soon, frustrated that their bloodlust will not be satisfied. They want one of us to lie bleeding in the dirt, to beg for mercy. They want to taste the fear and experience the pain.
Lance cries out. “Please, Anna. I love you.”
For a moment, I’m torn—not with sympathy for Lance. He doesn’t deserve sympathy. But with wondering if I want the same thing. Am I no better than the beasts watching us? Do I want to toy with Lance a little longer? Break his bones and make him beg for death?
The fight has been so one-sided, the vampire in me has yet to emerge. But now, holding Lance against me, I’m suddenly aware of the pulsing of his blood just a kiss away. It calls to the vampire and she springs forth with a growl and a gnashing of teeth. This is the way. Leave something for Adele and his family to mourn over.
I drop the stake, take a firmer grip on his squirming body. His strength is no match for mine. I pull his head back, his body arching and straining against me. With a snarl, I bury my face in his neck, tear at the jugular until I feel the skin snap. Find the artery.
And drink.
CHAPTER 46
It grows deathly quiet around us. I can almost taste the excitement. This is the spectacle they came to see.
Lance fights at first, tries to break away. I am stronger. There’s a breathless rush when his blood pours into my mouth and it seems I cannot swallow fast enough. Then, as his heartbeat slows, I take my time. He is losing himself in the pleasure of surrender. His knees buckle and I lower him to the ground, folding myself around him so he is like a doll in my arms. His thoughts are neither fevered nor bitter, his blood as sweet as I remember.
And I remember.
I remember the first time I saw him—at Glory’s, a face like an angel. I remember the first time we made love. It was frenzied, passionate, our desire so intense, the bloodlust so high, we barely made it out of our clothes. I remember other times when we went slow, making love the way humans do. Enjoying our bodies and letting simple tactile senses, touch, smell, drive us to the edge. We gave each other so much pleasure. I am glad ending it this way spares him pain.
I wonder what he is remembering. His thoughts are cloaked in shadow, growing dimmer. When I try to reach him, I catch a flash of unfamiliar faces. His parents, perhaps, and his sister and brother the way they must have been the last time he saw them. So long ago.
And then even the shadows are gone. I don’t stop until I feel the last flutter of his heart, savor the last drop of his blood as it flows out of his body into mine. I know it is the last because of the texture and taste. Lifeblood is mead and tastes of the earth and life. This is water and tastes of tears and death.
I, the human Anna, hold him for a long moment when it is over. I wish I felt sorrow. A part of me is devastated at what I am capable of. At what I’ve done. A part of me knows this is my nature. I can’t fight it. I’m not sure I want to anymore.
Turnbull approaches me first. He offers his hand to help me to my feet. At this moment, I will accept nothing from him, not even the simplest act of courtesy. I close Lance’s eyes, already filmed and cloudy, and stand up and away.
When I look back down, it is no longer the Lance I knew, but the husk of an elderly man. His skin sags, his hair thins to long, silver tufts. His face morphs into a gaunt mirror reflecting the rictus of death. Was it only a week ago when we were in Palm Springs and he told me his story? It was 1925. He was born in South Africa in 1925.
I turn to face Turnbull. “I want his body shipped to his family in South Africa. There is a woman in Palm Springs who will know how to reach them. I will see you get the information. Will you take care of it?”
“Yes.”
He is uncomfortable, as if unprepared for this outcome. When I look around at the others, the same expression of incredulity is mirrored on the faces staring back at me.
They all expected me to lose. Even Turnbull.
“Don’t I get a big gold belt? Or at least a trophy?” Sarcasm is the only way I have to give vent to my outrage. It’s either that or tear Turnbull’s head off.
Chael is the first to speak. This was an unfair pairing. You obviously had history with this one.
The vampire had retreated at Lance’s death, now she’s back. And thirsty again for a taste of this one’s blood. Wasn’t that the point, Chael?
I step up to him. Lance wasn’t a good enough fighter? Then let’s you and I have a rematch. I have no history with you.
There is a stirring among the others, a collective gasp. No one has ever challenged one of the thirteen. The surprise quickly turns to a thrill of anticipation. Lance was disposed of too quickly. There is still bloodlust to be satisfied.
Chael feels the group’s enthusiasm swirling around him like sand in blowing wind. They want him to accept the challenge. Put this upstart i
n her place.
He also feels the depth of my fury.
He addresses them like a teacher admonishing unruly students. There is no contingency in the Grimoire for a second challenge. We are bound by the outcome of the first. It is so written.
He says it like he is disappointed but can do nothing but abide by the rules. Rules he, moments before, called “superstition.” The smell of him tells me something different. It is acrid and sharp. The smell of a coward.
At that moment, I know. As old and revered among vampires as these thirteen are, they are jealous of their lives and not quick to put them in danger.
In that respect, they are no different than humans.
CHAPTER 47
I don’t know what is going to happen next. Frey said there would be some kind of induction ceremony. I wonder if it will involve secret handshakes and funny hats.
I want to go home. I want to see Frey.
I want to forget what I just did.
Lance is still in my heart and in my head. I did what I swore to do after Biarritz. I wish I felt more a sense of satisfaction. Instead there’s emptiness and sorrow.
At least his family will know that he is gone. They can bury him, and he will have something to show for having lived—even it’s only a piece of marble.
The fastest way to get out of here is to move this freak show along.
“Turnbull, what happens now?”
He is talking with two humans who appeared a moment ago. Summoned, I suppose, to take care of clean up. They have a gurney upon which they place Lance’s body. They cover it with a shroud of black velvet.
Turnbull sees me watch as they wheel it out. He says, “As soon as we have the necessary information, we will see that his body is returned to his family.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.” At least Adele will be spared the shock of hearing about Lance’s death for the first time from a stranger. She already knows. It was part of his escape plan.
Turnbull takes my elbow. “We will adjourn to the library. There the ceremony will continue.”
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