Immortal War

by Justin Somper

  Moonshine’s eager eyes skimmed the portrait. “Chang Ko Li,” he said in reverential tones. “He’s a complete legend. The best of the best.”

  “If only I had a ruby for every time I’ve heard that,” said Cheng Li. “Yes, my father is a legend. Chang Ko Li, John Kuo, your uncles Porfirio and Molucco—each one of them may justifiably be called a pirate legend.” She turned to face her companion once more. “But their time is over now. You and I can be spurred on by what they have taught us, and, to a greater or lesser degree, by their example. But when we enter the fray, it will be our wits and reflexes that determine the fight and prove decisive in this war. Legends they may be, but now they are no more than dust—their swords either rusting or impotent in their display cases at the academy.” Her almond eyes bore into Moonshine’s. “Be your own man,” she said. “That’s what matters now.”

  He nodded ruminatively, still gazing at the portrait.

  Cheng Li leaned closer and lowered her voice confidentially. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, one captain to another. Chang Ko Li was, without question, one of the greatest pirates to have ever traversed the oceans. But a good father?” She shook her head. “Not so much.”

  “You took your time,” said the mean-faced courier. “That’ll cost you. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Connor frowned. “Keep your voice down,” he said, glancing nervously up at the deck. He leaned out from the ladder toward the courier’s small lightboat. “Hand over the goods, mate, and we’ll decide your price.”

  “That’s not how it works, mate.” The courier shook his head, retreating farther into the shadows of his small craft. “Money first. Then we’ll see about your blood.”

  Fire burned in Connor’s eyes. “Just give it to me,” he said, the deep hungry need consuming his insides. He reached out to grab the man’s arm.

  The courier cried out in pain. “All right! Get your filthy Vampirate hands off me and we’ll proceed with the transaction.”

  Connor composed himself once more. “I’m sorry,” he said, seeing the already livid bruise forming on the man’s arm.

  “Here!” The courier thrust a flask toward him.

  At the sight of it, Connor felt a wave of calm course through him. He reached into his pocket for the roll of money. “Here you are. Take all of it. With my apologies for making you wait.” He glanced at the bruise once more. “And for the way I acted before.”

  The courier’s hand closed tight around the notes. “You lot are all the same. Full of fire and brimstone until you get what you want. Then sweet as treacle and overflowing with fancy words. You make me sick.” Stuffing the money into his purse, he lost no time in steering away from The Tiger.

  “Thank you,” Connor said, cradling the flask as carefully as if it were a baby. “I really needed this.”

  There was a look of pure revulsion in the courier’s eyes. Then the night thrust a cloak of darkness between the two men and they set off on their separate ways.

  13

  THE LOST BOYS

  Connor strode briskly across to the door leading toward his cabin. Hearing voices up ahead, he dropped back to wait for the others to pass. He was taken by surprise to see Jasmine and Bo Yin step out onto the deck. There was no avoiding this encounter.

  “Connor Tempest,” Bo Yin said, smiling with pleasure. She never seemed to tire of running into him; nor he of her. There was something puppyish about Bo Yin, which brought out Connor’s warmth and also his protective nature. He returned Bo’s smile.

  Jasmine’s eyes immediately fell to the flask Connor gripped tightly in his hand. “I see your delivery has arrived.”

  “This?” Connor said, cracking a careful smile. “Oh, no, this isn’t my delivery. Just a flask of tea I took with me while I was waiting. The guy never showed up. We won’t be using that courier company again.” Shaking his head, he brushed past them and forged on inside.

  Jasmine waited until he was safely out of earshot before turning to Bo Yin. “He spends so much time lying these days, you’d have thought he’d be more accomplished at it.”

  Bo Yin frowned, pained at this further evidence of the animosity between two people whom she cared for deeply. “What makes you think Connor Tempest is lying?” she asked Jasmine.

  “I don’t think it,” Jasmine said, “I know it. Plus, we made a plan to meet up tonight and talk, but he’s totally forgotten. I don’t believe anything he says anymore.” She sighed. “Come on, Bo Yin. Let’s get this inspection done and dusted. We could all use some sleep.”

  Jasmine and Bo Yin had almost completed their tour of the deck when they came to the foredeck. There, sitting atop one of the cannons, looking out into the star-filled night, was Cate. She was as still as a statue and didn’t notice them at first.

  “Cate,” Jasmine said softly, reaching a hand up gently to Cate’s shoulder.

  As if drawn out of a deep trance, Cate shuddered, then turned to acknowledge her comrades.

  “I thought you were going back to your cabin to read,” Jasmine said.

  Cate nodded. “I did and then I tried to take the captain’s advice, but I can never sleep before an attack. These days, I’m not sleeping too well in general.”

  “Because of Bart,” Bo Yin said. She spoke with such tenderness and innocence that her words didn’t seem the invasion of privacy they might have been from other mouths.

  Cate nodded, her eyes turning to the distant horizon. “I keep thinking that he’s coming home. How stupid is that? Of course, I know it’s impossible, but my mind keeps playing tricks on me.” As she spoke, she gently twisted the slim engagement ring, which she had taken to wearing on the fourth finger of her left hand.

  Jasmine nodded, sitting down beside her. “I understand. I feel the same way about Jacoby. Every logical instinct tells me that he’s gone and yet, every morning, I wake up thinking that today might be the day he comes back to us.”

  “You should hold on to that hope!” Bo Yin said, leaning against the deck rail, facing her two older comrades. “One day, you could be proved right.”

  Jasmine smiled and shook her head. “I hope experience doesn’t change you, Bo. You’re so full of hope and optimism.”

  “Yes, I am!” Bo Yin nodded vehemently. “For all of us.”

  Cate’s eyes moved from Bo Yin to Jasmine. “Perhaps she’s right. I know that Bart is dead and gone. Connor told me he buried him at sea.” She shuddered, as if holding back tears before continuing. “But Jacoby’s body has never been found. There’s every chance he could still be out there, only wounded, waiting for the right time to return.”

  Jasmine felt the now familiar heat of budding tears pricking the backs of her own eyes. “Every night, scores of pirates’ bodies are washed out to sea,” she said. “If he was only wounded, he’d have been picked up by one of our ambulance boats and taken to the field hospitals at the academy or Sanctuary.” She reached for Cate’s hand, gripping it tightly. “I’ll never forget watching that ship of Vampirates sail away with him that night and feeling so powerless to help him.” Her eyes met Cate’s. “I think we have to let them go,” she said. “For our sake as much as theirs.”

  Nodding, Cate turned back, desolately, toward the horizon.

  14

  BROUGHT TO BOOK

  All that night, Grace waited for a chance to go to the lab and see if Olivier’s book was still hidden there under the counter. She had no doubt of its power and importance and was intent on discovering for herself what lay between its blue cloth covers. Nor did she doubt that, as soon as he was capable, Olivier would set off to retrieve the book for himself. She was sure now that this was one of the reasons he had come back to Sanctuary—perhaps the main reason. Fortunately, he was not yet strong enough to rise up from his bed. But he would be soon enough. He was making a surprisingly swift recovery, given the severe state he had arrived in. The clock was ticking.

  But it was one of those nights where everything seemed to be conspiring against Grace. Fi
rst, there had been the arrival of more ambulances and a fresh healing procedure to conduct. Then Tooshita had asked Grace to take on an extra ward round while she was immersed in another healing. It was a favor Grace could not deny her friend and fellow healer. Just as Grace was at last heading off in the direction of the lab, she was assailed by Darcy, in an obvious state of distress.

  “Do you have five minutes free to talk?” Darcy managed to stammer out before her face crumpled into tears.

  Nodding, Grace put her arm around her friend’s waist and swiftly steered her along the corridor and out into the open air. Once outside, they embarked on the short walk to the small herb garden with the water fountain. There, Darcy told Grace how a Nocturnal patient they had thought was making a strong recovery had taken a turn for the worse and they had lost her—despite their best efforts.

  Grace took Darcy’s hand as tears streamed down her friend’s cheeks. “I completely understand why you’re so upset,” she told her, “but, remember, we’re successful in the majority of cases we treat. We’re healers, not miracle workers, Darcy—we can only do our best. You know that as well as I do.”

  Darcy nodded, lifting a handkerchief to dab at her eyes. “I know, Grace. You’re right, of course. I don’t know why this one patient affected me so much. I didn’t even get to know her, like you sometimes do.”

  Grace smiled. “You’re a wonderful nurse, Darcy,” she told her. “Don’t forget that. All the healers say so. Everyone fights to have you on their team.”

  “Really?” Darcy’s wide eyes were filled with hope once more.

  Grace nodded. “You’re right to put your blinders on a bit. We all need to do that, I guess. If we dwelled on the horror and pain every time we began to treat a new casualty, we’d be next to useless.” She paused. “But every once in a while, the horror—the enormity of it—does strike you. It’s inevitable. And it’s not a bad thing. But these feelings will pass.” Grace stroked her friend’s arm reassuringly. “I’m sure you did everything you could to help her recover. It’s very sad that she wasn’t strong enough to make the journey back, but it’s not your fault.”

  She couldn’t help thinking then of Olivier. His wounds had been the worst she’d ever seen and yet his recovery had seemed effortless. She wasn’t so arrogant as to attribute this solely to her own healing powers. More likely, Olivier was a dhampir and therefore able to heal himself. But that didn’t explain how he had been so badly injured in the first place. She was starting to strongly disbelieve his tale of his suffering at the hands of Lola’s squad—plausible though it was. Perhaps, on reflection, it was rather too plausible.

  Returning her gaze to Darcy, Grace saw there were fresh tears in her friend’s eyes.

  “You should get some sleep,” Grace said. “I’m not saying that things will be significantly better when you wake up, but I’ve seen the hours you’ve been keeping, and you’re in danger of running on empty.”

  “Thanks, Doctor!” Darcy said with a forced grin. “Is that your prescription, then?”

  Grace nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Give yourself at least six hours, none of these so-called power naps. Put in your earplugs and forget about the bells. And go and see Jim. I think you could do with some blood, Darcy. You look like you’re at a low ebb.”

  At the mention of her donor, Darcy brightened. “Yes, that’s a good idea,” she said.

  “Why don’t I walk you over to the donor block?” Grace suggested.

  Darcy smiled but shook her head. “No, that’s okay, Grace. I can make my own way. I might stay here for a bit, anyhow. It’s always peaceful in this garden, whatever craziness is going on around us. Maybe I just need a little quiet time.” She squeezed Grace’s hand. “Thanks for being here for me, Grace—as always.”

  “We’re best friends,” Grace said. “It goes with the territory. You’ve always been there for me, ever since we met.”

  “And I always will be,” Darcy said, her voice suddenly full of passion. “Now off you go, Grace. I’m sure you have a hundred things to be getting on with.”

  Grace smiled to herself. There was just one further thing on her list tonight. She rose to her feet and smoothed down her skirt, then turned and took her leave of Darcy and the sweet-scented night garden.

  Back inside the compound, Grace made her way through the corridors, intent on getting to the lab without any further diversion. Miracle of miracles, it seemed that this might at last be possible. The corridors were empty. Everyone was getting on with their business. Now was her moment to investigate under the counter and see if that book of Olivier’s was still hidden there.

  As she approached the door to the lab, Grace’s heart was hammering. As much as she tried to calm herself, she knew—somehow—that the book was really important. Not just to Olivier, but also to her.

  She pushed open the door, excited to think that in a matter of moments she would have the book in her hands and be able to start uncovering its secrets. But as the door swung forward, Grace’s heart sank. She was not alone.

  “Good evening, Grace.” Mosh Zu looked up from the central counter, where he was busy preparing a potion.

  “Hello,” she said, trying to inject some brightness into her voice. She didn’t want him to think that she wasn’t pleased to see him. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you in here.”

  Mosh Zu shrugged. “It has been a while. We’ve all had our hands full with the wounded.” He turned his face to her. “I thought it would do me good to come and handle something other than wounded flesh.” As he spoke, he lifted a pestle and began grinding seeds into the base of a mortar. He smiled softly at her. “There’s a fresh batch of berry tea over there, by the stove. Why don’t you pour yourself a draft and keep me company?”

  Grace nodded automatically. Then, as Mosh Zu returned his gaze to the pestle and mortar, her eyes skimmed the base of the counter. Was the hidden panel on this side? It was tantalizing to be so near, yet so far from the moment of discovery.

  Before she might arouse Mosh Zu’s suspicions, Grace moved over to the stove. Next to it was a small counter, on which sat a crate filled with metal flasks. Above the counter were shelves crowded with crockery and cooking utensils. Grace reached up and retrieved an enamel mug and a thermometer, just as Mosh Zu had trained her. She lifted one of the flasks out of the crate and unscrewed its double cap carefully before inserting the thermometer and watching closely as the level rose to thirty-seven degrees Celsius. Body temperature.

  She inhaled the familiar smell of berry tea—the brew of seven rare mountain berries that Mosh Zu had created as a substitute for blood. Grace carried her mug and the flask over to the main counter. She pulled up a stool at the other end of the bench from Mosh Zu and poured a draft of liquid into the mug. He watched her approvingly. She was dying to inspect this section of the counter, but she couldn’t—not yet. Instead, she brought the mug of tea to her lips.

  According to Mosh Zu, dhampirs were not dependent on blood in the same way regular vampires were. Yet, slowly but surely, Grace’s appetite for blood had been awakened deep inside her. In the latter stages of her sojourn with Sidorio and Lola, she had experienced such a deep hunger for blood that she had attacked a mortal girl and drunk hungrily from her. Even now, she could smell and taste that girl’s blood; even now she bore deep shame and regret for her actions.

  Grace’s happiness at returning to Sanctuary had been tempered by her fear at having to confess her addiction to Mosh Zu. But she needn’t have fretted. Mosh Zu had listened carefully and reacted with equanimity. He had prescribed Grace a nightly flask of berry tea—just as he did for the regular Vampirates who came to Sanctuary, struggling to control their dependence on blood. Mosh Zu was, he had confessed, unsure whether Grace would ever lose the taste for blood or if, ultimately, they would need to find a more permanent solution. One possibility under consideration was that she would be paired with her own donor. For now, though, it was a nightly flask of berry tea. As she took another sip, Grace refl
ected that it was curious to be both an addict and a healer at the same time.

  Perhaps having some insight into her thoughts, Mosh Zu glanced up from his work and smiled at her reassuringly. She took another sip, feeling relaxed as the warm tea slipped like liquid velvet down her throat.

  When she had first returned, she had asked Mosh Zu if it was even feasible for her to work as a healer when, by necessity, she would often be faced with the open arteries of the wounded. To her surprise, he had declared that it was not only possible but would be part of her own healing process. In any case, she had soon learned that wounded Nocturnals tended not to have a high concentration of blood in their system. For this reason, they did not have a propensity toward bleeding. Instead, their wounds presented themselves as breaks in the very fiber of their flesh—like a building crumbling to dust or a landmass after an earthquake. Looking down at Olivier on the healer’s slab, she had seen through the fissures in his desiccating flesh to a dark, infinite void. It had taken all her healing powers to reanimate that dust and patch together his flesh—or at least she had thought it had been her healing powers…

  “What are you thinking about?” Mosh Zu inquired.

  Glancing up, Grace saw that he had cleared up his things. The salve he had been working on was complete. How long had he been watching her? She decided to take a chance.

  “I was thinking about a new patient of mine.”

  Mosh Zu said nothing but nodded, encouraging her to continue.

  “We both know him,” she said. “It’s Olivier.”

  Once more, Mosh Zu nodded, his face impassive. “Olivier is here,” he said—his tone leaving Grace unsure whether this was a statement or a question.

  “He arrived last night,” Grace went on. “Dani assigned him to me to heal. I had no idea that it was him at first. He was extremely badly wounded—right at the brink of oblivion”—her eyes met Mosh Zu’s—“or so it seemed.”