The Sparks: Book I of the Feud Trilogy

by Kyle Prue

  Neil smiled briefly. “Don’t refer to the Taurlum as titans. We don’t need to fuel their egos. That’s their job.” He set down his drink. “Here she comes.”

  Bianca had made a beeline for them, her brow furrowed. “He wouldn’t talk to me,” she said when she was within earshot.

  “What?” Neil looked over her shoulder. The arms dealer was nowhere to be seen. “He didn’t say anything?”

  “He just apologized. He wouldn’t stop saying sorry.”

  “Did he say what he was sorry for?” Rhys prompted.

  “No. He wouldn’t even look at me.”

  Rhys frowned. “So the soldiers won’t talk to any of the families?”

  “Apparently not,” Neil remarked as he searched the crowd for the dealer.

  “Do you think it’s something serious?” Bianca asked.

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “I could try to talk to him as a commoner,” she offered. “I’ll change out of the dress. I have my armor underneath anyway.” She grinned, trying to lighten the mood, but Neil was too lost in thought.

  “We have to tell Dad,” Rhys said, putting a hand on Neil’s shoulder. They started toward the door.

  “Wait!” Bianca ran after them. “You’re leaving?”

  “This can’t wait,” Rhys told her.

  “Don’t you want me to come with you? I’m the one who tried to talk to him.”

  “Sir Vapros won’t want to talk to you,” Neil said bitterly.

  “But Neil!”

  “You have to stay here, Bianca,” he said sharply. “In case anything happens. You have to … keep watch.”

  “In case anything happens,” she repeated. “You think something bad could happen? And you want me to stay here, to knowingly put myself in harm’s way?”

  “You have your armor under your dress,” Rhys pointed out.

  Bianca ignored him. “Neil Vapros, stop walking this instant!”

  He didn’t stop walking. She finally fell behind. “Fine!” she called after them. “But you owe me! For the second time today!”

  He waved over his shoulder absent-mindedly which didn’t seem to calm her temper. She huffed and turned to face the people and festivities once again.

  The quickest route back to the Vapros home took them through the center of the nightlife district. Neil and Rhys had to weave between dancing villagers and try to avoid getting hit in the head with mugs of beer. It was slow going. Eventually, Neil ducked into an alley and led his brother to a quieter part of the district. The streets here were deserted; the bars closed early on the outskirts.

  “Where are you going?” Rhys asked.

  “We’ll get there faster this way. There were too many people in the way.”

  They kept walking in silence. It had rained in this part of town. The streets were full of puddles and a few stray drops still fell from the sky. One of them hit Neil directly on the forehead. He found himself wishing he had his assassin’s hood. In the distance, he heard drunken cheers from the part of the district that was still open for business.

  “I hate when everything’s deserted like this,” Rhys mumbled.

  “Why?”

  “I feel like someone’s going to jump out and attack me.”

  Neil smiled. “This isn’t the poor district. Nobody’s going to mug you. We’re practically princes here. We do own every business you can see.” But as he spoke, he reflexively reached for his knife. The villagers of Altryon had become increasingly restless lately. Some of the emperor’s policies had left people desperately poor. Year after year, he had relentlessly increased taxes. There were whispers of uprisings. “And why would they attack you, anyway? You’re Rhys Vapros. People love your quietness and gentleness. Who could hurt someone as adorable as you?” he mocked quietly. “You’d have more to worry about if you were the emperor.”

  “I just don’t like being out alone this late at night. I don’t like the dark. It’s an irrational fear. Don’t ask me to explain it.”

  Neil slung his arm over his brother’s shoulder. “You aren’t alone. You have me—an assassin.”

  “An assassin in training,” Rhys corrected, but he was smiling.

  “Same thing,” Neil countered as he looked up at the moon.

  Neil and Rhys made it to the end of the alley and neared the center of the nightlife district. A large marble fountain stood in the center and the entire square buzzed with activity. Street performers, merchants, and young partygoers brought the street to life. As the two Vapros boys wandered through the crowd, Rhys’s eyes scanned the tops of heads. This was a common practice for him. Whenever he entered a new area he was searching for possible threats or unpredictable variables.

  “You see that?” Rhys whispered.

  It took Neil a moment, but he noticed the grime covered man slipping through the crowds, running his slender fingers across the partygoers as he went. “Pickpocket?” Neil asked.

  “Maybe.” Rhys said.

  “Could it be the big one? The one dad’s after?”

  “Maybe.” Rhys said again.

  Neil wrapped his fingers around his knife and glared at the man with unrelenting focus. The second he saw concrete evidence of theft he’d strike. Sir Vapros hated pickpockets in the nightlife district, and one in particular always sought to give him trouble. Neil struggled to remember the lowlife’s name.

  “I think it’s Ainsley Bovick.” There was a quiet excitement in Rhys’s voice. “The Prince of Pockets.”

  Neil’s fingers twitched. “That’s a stupid name,” he said even though his adrenaline was running high.

  Ainsley was the head of a small gang called the Knights of Night. They were small time and specialized only in pickpocketing, but they spent far too much time in the nightlife district and Sir Vapros had ordered that any discovered be killed. Neil wanted to look over at Rhys but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Ainsley. Suddenly he saw the glimmer of a coin as it left a drunken man’s pocket and Neil had all the confirmation he needed.

  Ainsley weaved through the crowd with outstanding fluidity and Neil remembered that someone had once told him that the Prince of Pockets removed the bones he didn’t need to become more nimble. Neil had no time to think of rumors though. He only had time to think of the task at hand. He tracked Ainsley with his eyes and the moment the pickpocket picked up speed, Neil materialized right in front of him.

  Neil maneuvered his shoulder so it would land solidly in the man’s sternum and Ainsley toppled to the ground gasping for breath. He certainly felt like a man that had bones. Showers of gold and stolen belongings spilled out over the cobblestone street and Ainsley scrambled to reclaim them. Without much effort Neil had his knife out of its sheath and against the man’s neck. “Are you the Prince of Pockets?”

  Ainsley grinned, showing two gold teeth and one that looked like a ruby. “I might be. Daddy’s favorite assassin?” he asked.

  “I might be.”

  Ainsley laughed loudly and Neil noticed that the entire square had stopped to observe them. Could Neil really slit a man’s throat in front of nearly a hundred civilians? Ainsley looked around and realized the predicament. “Do you think your family is respected?” he mused. His voice was impossibly high for a man his age. “I’m just curious. Respect and fear always look so similar from afar.”

  “Maybe we’re both.”

  Ainsley rubbed a filthy hand over his forehead. “’Billy was a good boy, who was never rude or sad—until he met the Vapros and then everything went bad!’” He was howling loud enough for all of Altryon to hear him.

  Neil hated Little Billy rhymes and might have spilled the man’s guts just to hear the end of it. “’They took him to their parties, they let him drink their ale. The emperor came—they disappeared—and Billy went to jail.’”

  Now it seemed everyone in the square was staring. “I bet every soul in this district has heard the rhyme at least a dozen times.” Ainsley taunted. “I wonder, is that how they really think of
you? It really is hard to disagree with the simplistic truth of a children’s book. I’ve found most things in Little Billy to be accurate.”

  “Alright,.” Neil said, keeping the knife against the pickpocket’s skin. “I’ll match you one for one. ‘Little Billy had never been so poor, he had what his job provided but always wanted more. So he travelled to the richer districts to see what he could steal, he was caught, he was killed, and the crows received a meal.’”

  Ainsley snickered. “I like that one.”

  “I think the ‘simplistic truth’” of that rhyme is pretty clear. If you take things that don’t belong to you, you end up dead.”

  “Then do it.” Ainsley hissed. “In front of all of these people.”

  Rhys appeared next to Neil. “This might not be the best idea,” Rhys whispered. “This is quite a crowd.”

  Neil wanted to respond, but a far-off voice suddenly called his name, “Vapros boys! Over here!”

  Neil and Rhys turned to see a preacher standing on the edge of the fountain. Ainsley seized his momentary opportunity and weaved around the blade of the knife. He was into an ally before Neil could even consider going after him. Frustrated, Neil turned his focus back to the preacher. The man gestured grandly to the small crowd surrounding him. “The Man with the Golden Light bestowed his power upon the Vapros. They’re the proof! Teleport for us again! Show us your power!”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Neil grumbled.

  “Now you’re against improving public image? This will be the best press we get tonight.” Rhys materialized a few feet away. Neil followed.

  “The teachings of the First Church of Enlightenment are proven,” the preacher cried. “Centuries ago, the Man with the Golden Light came forth from the heavens and bestowed upon you these divine gifts. And from these gifts, in turn, your feud was sprung.” He turned to the boys expectantly.

  “I don’t want to talk about the feud,” Neil said to Rhys.

  “Fine,” Rhys said, “I’ll do it.” He positioned himself to face the crowd and spoke clearly, “We were given these powers by the Man with the Golden Light. Our descendants will have them, too. The Man with the Golden Light charged the families with protecting Altryon, and time and time again the Vapros have proven that we are the only ones capable of serving the people. We are the only family that does charity work. We are the only family building things for the people. The other families use their powers for selfish reasons—they monopolize the markets and the banking system. But we Vapros, everything we do, we do for you.”

  Rhys turned to Neil with a shrug. Before Neil could respond, the preacher boomed defiantly, "No! You were given these gifts for a purpose and you've squandered these blessings in a feud that has lasted for centuries while the people of Altryon suffer from your petty power struggle. You were charged to work together with the other families for the greater good. Instead, you each use these gifts for your own gain while the people suffer under this oppressive regime. Do you boys wear tattoos? Have you inscribed the souls of the dead into your skin? Had we not interrupted would you have spilled the blood of that poor man?"

  Neil countered, "Wait! We—” but his words were drowned out by the jeers of the crowd. Rhys grabbed Neil by the arm, and they slipped away down the street as the preacher continued his diatribe. Rhys pulled Neil into The Hideaway, a back alley pub owned by the Vapros family. As they entered the rustic tavern, Rhys locked the door behind him. It was closing time and the bar was empty except for the white haired, weather beaten barkeep wiping down the bar. Rhys and Neil plopped down on stools. "Alfred, we need a minute. Can you stay open for a bit?"

  "Of course, Sir Vapros. It is in fact your establishment. Can I get you two something?"

  "Yes, can we get some ale?" said Neil. As the barkeep turned away to grab mugs, Neil went off. "What was that? After everything we've done for the people of Altryon, this is the thanks we get? The ungrateful—” Neil was interrupted by the barkeep.

  "Your ale, sirs."

  "Thank you, Alfred." Neil continued in a more controlled demeanor, recanting the event out loud. "You've run this pub for forty years, Alfred. Are we really that bad?"

  For a moment, the innkeeper just looked at the two of them as if contemplating whether or not to respond. After cocking his head and scratching his forehead, Alfred slowly said in his gravelly voice, "It's not a question of being good or bad." This seemed to puzzle and even frustrate Neil. He began to say something as Rhys grabbed his arm.

  "Continue," Rhys said to the old man.

  "It's not my place, sirs. I should stay quiet."

  "No, please continue, Alfred. You know this town better than anyone. After all, you've run this pub forever. If anyone knows the people of Altryon, it's you."

  "Well, it's no mystery we are far worse off under the emperor's rule than we were under the rule of the families."

  Neil interrupted, "Then what's the problem?"

  Rhys once again grabbed Neil's arm. "Let him continue."

  Alfred cautiously began again. "Do you even remember what you're feuding about?"

  "Sure," Neil retorted in the canned response that had become automatic.

  The barkeep stared at Neil for a few seconds. "Well, that's a relief. It would be a shame if all this bloodshed between the families was for nothing. I hope it's for a really good reason, since it is coming at a great cost to the people." Alfred turned and resumed his cleaning.

  Rhys stared at Neil. "Do we? Do we really know what this damn feud is about? Cause I sure as hell can't explain it."

  Neil opened his mouth, ready to spew the propaganda he had heard his entire life, and then slowly shut it. He ran his hands through his hair, leaned his elbows on the bar, and rested his head in his hands.

  Alfred said quietly, "I'm an old man and don't know much, but it seems to me whoever has you upset might have a point. Why were you given these powers? What is your destiny, Sir Vapros?"

  Neil didn’t have an answer. Alfred shrugged and moved into the back room. “I wonder how Victoria and Jennifer did tonight,” Neil said quietly.

  “They probably had an even less exciting time than we did.” Rhys took a sip of his drink. “Nothing monumental ever happens at the Opera House.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  VAPROS OPERA HOUSE

  DARIUS TAURLUM

  Darius had lumbered onstage after the rest of the actors and clumsily joined them as they formed a line. They began to sing a battle anthem. One of the men next to him nudged him when he didn’t join in. Snarling, Darius caught a fistful of the actor’s shirt and threw him out into the audience. The nobles in the first few rows shrieked; the others began to stand and run for the exit. Darius lifted his hammer and slammed it into the ground, sending splinters of wood in every direction. “This Opera House is closed in the name of the Taurlum family!” he roared, swinging the hammer over his head and down into the stage again. Screams broke out through the audience. “You will not make a mockery of us again!” A Vapros guard charged at him, dagger drawn. Darius pummeled him to death with the hammer.

  The Taurlum smashed through pillars and walls as he strolled offstage toward the back exit, only to find it blocked by a familiar figure. “Well, well, well,” Jennifer Vapros said, examining her fingernails coolly. “Darius, we meet again.”

  Darius growled, “Out of my way.”

  Jennifer smiled savagely and cooed, “I can hear the rumors now: Darius Taurlum, beaten by two girls in one day. I don’t think you’d be the Taurlum’s ‘Golden Boy’ anymore.”

  He lifted his hammer and asked, “Are you sure you want to play this game?”

  She raised an eyebrow and repeated, “Are you sure you want to play this game? You know what they say about playing with fire.” She winked as she pulled a knife from somewhere in her dress. “Still have the scars from last time?”

  He clenched his jaw. Jennifer Vapros, like most descendants of the original families, had developed heightened abilities—a feat that he, Darius,
still had yet to accomplish. Everyone else in his family had some form of extra ability: Michael, for example, could create small earthquakes, and their father could turn his skin into actual steel. Nobody knew for sure how to coax out the extra power, but Darius had a feeling it had to do with experiencing some kind of trauma. It would make sense, after all. He himself had never gone through anything that left him feeling like he couldn’t go on, but he knew Michael had been in some tough situations. And Jennifer Vapros, if the rumors were to be believed, had experienced her fair share of trauma.

  Jennifer lifted her hand, as if in a wave and revealed her palm to him. The skin was red, like a glowing ember, and Darius knew, from their last meeting that if it touched him, it would burn like fire and leave scorch marks on his skin.

  He had once been on a raid of one of the Vapros' parties with Michael. All had gone well until he decided to go after the only Vapros actually attending the party—Jennifer. He had only just caught her when she grabbed his arm and, eyes blazing, burned into his skin. The burn had since healed over, but his pride had yet to recover.

  He charged at her, hammer in hand. She disappeared before his eyes and rematerialized just behind him. With a smirk, she thrust her knife into a chink in his armor. It didn’t pierce the skin.

  If she was frustrated by her failure, she didn’t show it; her face remained as calm and collected as ever. Darius increased his grip on the hammer. “You’re quick,” he growled, “but you’ll tire.”

  He swung quickly. Jennifer dodged the blow and reappeared in the air behind him and quickly pulled the helmet from his head. She materialized across the room, cradling his precious piece of armor. “Yes,” she agreed, “but not before ending you.”

  “Jen!” a girl’s voice cried, and Darius turned in time to see Jennifer’s twin sister hurtling down the hallway. Behind her was a boy dressed sloppily in commoner clothes with what appeared to be a borrowed noble’s coat. Grunting, Darius threw his hammer at the boy. It only nicked his shoulder, but it was enough to send him sprawling to the ground with a cry of agony. The girl rushed to protect him.