Cat spat at her captors and slowly walked to Luka’s side.
“Took ye long ’nuff,” she said, folding her arms.
“My apologies,” Luka said. “I was in prison.”
“Oh?” Cat asked. “Hmm, I ’spose I should be pleased ye turned up a’toll.” She paused and looked at him sideways. “Thank ye fer tha’,” she added.
“Of course,” Luka said, smiling a little.
Ahead of him, Jones drew a pistol and leveled it at Luka.
“Now then,” he said, “a bargain is a bargain.”
“That it is,” Luka agreed.
He slowly drew the pistols at his sides and held them out from his body.
“I drop these,” he said, “and the girl walks away. Only then do I surrender to you.”
Jones laughed and said, “That’s the bargain.”
The way he grinned told Luka that he had no intention of keeping his end of the agreement once the guns had struck the ground. No surprise there.
“Mister Luka,” Cat whispered, “he’s lyin’ to ye.”
“I know,” Luka replied.
He tossed his pistols onto the ground and looked at Jones. In reply, Jones grinned and lowered his weapon. He slowly advanced, his smile growing with each step. The other men followed behind, relaxing slightly but keeping their pistols up.
“Stupid, Luka,” Jones said. “Very stupid. Now I’ll kill you and take back the girl.”
Cat stared at Luka, her eyes darting back and forth as she studied his face.
“Well what’s the plan?” she asked.
“This,” Luka said.
He took Cat by the shoulder and gave her a hard shove. Cat cried out and tumbled sideways, falling into the shelter of the passage.
Reaching behind his back, Luka gripped the second pair of revolvers he had brought with him, hidden beneath his vest. It took a moment and a firm yank to pull them free of their holsters. Another moment and they were free of his coat as well. A third moment and he drew them up to take aim.
In that time, Jones had begun to realize that something was wrong. But it took him another moment to react, and by then Luka had fired twice and shot down the men directly beside him. Jones looked to his left and his right, mouth agape as the men fell. He began shouting, “Kill him! Kill him!” and his men rushed forward and began shooting half-blindly into the shadowy street around Luka.
Luka continued shooting with both hands, right then left, right then left. He had only the twelve bullets, for there would be no possibility of reloading before the fight was done. And there was very little time as well. Every shot had to be used. Every shot had to count.
He managed to shoot one more of Jones’s men before the bullets fired at him found their mark. The first one struck him in the chest, tearing through meat and narrowly missing bones and organs. The next took him in the leg, and he fell to his knee. Two more bullets struck his chest, but he continued shooting, gunning down man after man around Jones, who twisted and turned in place, watching his men fall.
As Luka took aim with his right hand, one of Jones’s bullets struck him in the shoulder. Luka’s arm collapsed, and he dropped his revolver. He gritted his teeth against the pain. With the vigor of adrenaline coursing through him, he scarcely noticed it.
He kept firing with the weapon in his left hand. A sixth man went down, then a seventh. Thank God for the place, Luka thought. The court was lit brightly enough for him to choose his targets with ease, but he still stood in the darkness of the street where they could only just see him. And better still, none was an experienced soldier.
He leveled his revolver at the last of Jones’s companions and fired the remaining bullet, catching the man in the throat just above the collar. The man jerked violently as blood sprayed from the wound. A moment later he collapsed onto the ground, still twitching and grabbing at his throat futilely as he bled out.
Jones had also fired his last bullet. He stood in the light, still pulling the trigger, his eyes wide with a maniacal fervor. It was fear and fury melded together into madness. Slowly Jones lowered his arm, and he looked at the dead and dying men who lay upon the ground around him.
“My God,” he said. “I’d not believe it if I didn’t see it myself.”
Luka laughed a little and managed to reply, “I have been known to do such things, Mister Jones.”
Jones dropped his empty revolver and fetched a new one from the hand of one of his dead men. Aiming it at Luka, he slowly approached, breathing heavily.
“Could’ve used a man like you, Luka,” he said. “Could’ve had the whole of London in our pockets by year’s end, you know. Me the brains, you the muscle.”
“I have brains enough for my purposes,” Luka said.
He slowly set his own empty weapon down. Alas, he had no fresh one he could reach, not in his current state.
“Almost tempted to offer you a job still,” Jones said. “That is, if you don’t die.”
Luka smiled.
“Men like me do not work for men like you, Mister Jones,” he said.
“Pity,” Jones said, shaking his head. “Still, at least I’ve managed you. Must thank you for that.”
“You’ve lost eight of your best men, Mister Jones,” Luka said. “You may kill me, but you’re finished. Those gangs surrounding you will scent your weakness, and they will devour you. Anyone left in your gang will desert you after this.”
“You’re not better off,” Jones retorted, sneering. “One of them will come in and take the Old Jago now that you’re gone. All your work, for nothin’.”
“I think not,” Luka said. “I’ve trained my men well. They will hold the line in my absence. They’re protecting their homes, their families. They will hold.”
Breathing was becoming difficult, much to Luka’s irritation. But his mouth was not bleeding, and that was good. The bullets had all torn meat. Alas, it made little difference. Either Jones would shoot him, or he would bleed to death. He could not make it to help on his own. But he had a little while longer and that mattered for something.
“Well,” Jones said, “at least you’ll die before I do. And I get to see the look in your eyes when I pull the trigger.”
“An execution?” Luka asked. “Go on. I don’t think you have the courage for it.”
Jones snarled and leveled his weapon at Luka’s head. Luka glared up at him, past the blurred shape of the barrel and into Jones’s eyes. If it was his time to die, it was his time. It was as God willed it. But at least while he lived, he had lived well and done right. To die among the bodies of his enemies was a good death.
“I’ll see you in Hell, Luka,” Jones said, cocking the revolver.
There was a shout of “No!” from the darkened side passage, and Luka’s eyes were drawn toward a blur of moment that surged from the shadows. Cat, in a fury, barreled into Jones with force enough to knock him from his feet. The revolver went off, the bullet passing Luka’s ear.
Luka watched Cat straddle Jones, pinning his arms with her legs as she struck him blow after blow upon the face and chest. Jones struggled, crying out in pain. He brought his revolver up and shoved it against Cat’s ribs.
Luka acted without hesitation. Before Jones could pull the trigger, Luka threw himself forward onto the ground. He reached out with his good hand and caught Jones by the wrist, yanking the weapon away. Jones continued to struggle, but as Cat beat him again and again, his strength faded and he went limp.
“Cat!” Luka shouted. “Stop!”
Cat paused, one bruised and bloodied fist raised high in the air. She turned to look at Luka and retorted:
“Wha’?”
Luka grunted and crawled a little closer. With the fighting done, the sensation of pain had begun to flow back into him.
He yanked the revolver from Jones’s hand and held it out to Cat.
“Kill him,” he said. “Cleanly.”
“Kill him?” Cat asked. For all the violence of her assault upon Jones, it sounded as if the
thought of killing him had never occurred to her.
Luka pulled himself up into a sitting position.
“Kill him,” he repeated. “Two bullets through the head. One to kill, one more for good measure.”
“But—” Cat began.
Beneath her, Jones began to stir. He murmured something and swatted at her feebly, but the beating had rendered him all but senseless.
“Kill him now while you have the chance,” Luka said. “It is important that you do it. And make it clean. He does not deserve the kindness of a quick death, but it is more reliable than a lingering one. And hurry. I need a doctor, and I cannot get to one without you.”
Cat slowly nodded. She gulped nervously and said, “I’ve never killed anyone ’fore.”
“There must always be a first time,” Luka said.
He shook his head to keep his senses. He certainly did need a doctor, and quickly.
Cat took a deep breath and slowly raised the revolver. Luka reached out and took her hands, gently straightening her aim.
“Now,” Luka said.
Cat closed her eyes tightly, then opened them. Fixing her eyes on Jones, she pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed through Jones’s forehead, leaving a spray of blood and bone upon the ground. At the sight, Cat winced violently and closed her eyes again. Gritting her teeth, she fired a second time and dropped the revolver.
Luka reached up and took her hand. She was trembling. It was no small thing to kill a man, especially in the calm following a fight when there was no adrenaline to ease the mind and blind the conscience. But the first kill was always important. It taught a person that to take a human life was easy. It was a realization that was both significant and terrible. Luka had almost forgotten how that realization felt, but he remembered it now as he saw the ashen look on Cat’s face. She wanted to feel something at Jones’s death, but she did not. Neither guilt nor pleasure, nor fear of divine retribution for the murder of her fellow man, for now she knew—and could never forget—that God cared little for murder and would not punish it.
“Cat,” Luka said.
She did not respond.
“Caitlin,” he said, using her full name. “Look at me.”
Cat turned her face toward him. There were tears in her eyes.
“Aye?” she asked softly.
“You did well,” Luka told her.
“I…” Cat said. “I thought I’d feel somethin’.”
“One cannot feel sorrow for the death of such a man,” Luka said. “Do not force yourself to feel guilty on his account.” He took a deep breath, which hurt a great deal. “I need a doctor. And I need your help.”
Cat quickly nodded. She stood and reached down to help him stand. Luka pulled himself up with her aid and leaned on her to keep the weight off his injured leg.
“Are ye gonne be a’right?” Cat asked. The expression of emptiness at killing Jones had suddenly been replaced by one of grave concern. There was great benefit to having a task ready to put one’s mind to at such a time.
“I require Constantine’s aid,” Luka said. “I must get to the clinic before I collapse from loss of blood. But with your help, I will manage. Come.”
He began hobbling down the street with Cat at his side. She held him tightly, bracing his good arm over her shoulders to support him. As they reached Meakin Row, she looked up at him and said:
“Thank ye for comin’ fer me.”
“Thank you for saving my life,” Luka replied.
And there was nothing more to be said.
They went on into the night, hurrying as best they were able for the safety of Osborne Court.
* * * *
In the small hours of the morning, Luka awoke with a start. He opened his eyes and lay as still as he could manage, his heart beating loudly enough for him to hear. Thump, thump, thump. But there was no other sound.
What had awoken him?
He lay in one of the beds in the back of the clinic. His body ached from its injuries, but Constantine had done his work well. The bullets were gone. He was swathed in bandages, now wet with blood. Was that what had disturbed his slumber? The bleeding of his wounds?
A lamp had been left on the bedside table. It was dim, but it shone brightly enough for him to see. Cat sat in a chair beside him, but she had succumbed to exhaustion and had crumpled over, half onto the bed. Her ginger curls covered her face as she snored softly.
The sight of it made Luka smile a little. Though he was injured, those in his charge were at peace. And such knowledge was satisfaction to him.
He sat up slowly, wincing with the movement. His arm responded to him, but only with effort and with a great deal of pain. He may have been Shashavani, but he still walked in the shadow of death. He lacked the regenerative capabilities of the truly living. His body would heal faster than a mortal man’s, but it would still require days or weeks—not minutes.
In the darkness of the room, he saw a figure seated in a chair across from him. By instinct, Luka reached for a weapon, but there was none to be found at hand.
He swore silently.
Slowly, he reached out and turned up the light of the bedside lamp. In the dim glow, the figure watching him became apparent. He saw a slender man in the shadows, black of hair and dressed in the fine clothes of a gentleman. Even before he recognized the man’s boyish face—for indeed, the ‘man’ looked scarcely older than his teens—Luka saw and knew the figure’s eyes, which were old and piecing and blue like ice.
“Iosef…” he murmured, speaking in his native Svan. “My brother.…”
Lord Iosef Shashavani smiled at him.
“Hello Luka, my brother,” he replied. “You are late.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Blackmoor
October
In the days following her excursion into the priory crypt, Varanus found that the memories of what she had seen were not so easily set aside. They distracted her, like so many loud sensations vying for her attention. While she sat and read, while she walked the grounds with Ekaterine, while she listened to Korbinian play his violin, she could feel her thoughts turning inexorably and often irrationally toward the body of her malformed ancestor in the tomb. Each incident of unwanted memory was like a catalyst, setting of a cascade of recollections and wild insinuations that raced across her mind like fire through dry grass. First, the misshapen bones; next, the Celtic barrow and its sacrificial pit; then the des Louveteaux in France and their own pit of sacrifice; then the beasts; then the fact that such creatures existed in England, France, and also Georgia, yet had never been recorded by science; then—
And on and on it went until she found herself lying half-comatose on the chaise longue in the drawing room or on one of the fainting couches in the parlor, staring off into the distance at nothing and everything while her mind wove together unconnected details as a powered loom wove cloth. At times she was almost paralyzed by it. It was all she could do to keep from being completely overwhelmed by ideas, to maintain the very modicum of normalcy necessary to assuage the curiosity of her relations.
Such was the curse of the Shashavani, she knew, but she had never experienced it so totally, so exhaustingly. It had always manifested in minor distractions or a meandering of thoughts, leaps of logic that failed to be of any great use. But she had seen such insights lead to madness, especially among the old—and in particular, with Sophio, the Queen of the Shashavani, the Vicar of Shashava. Varanus dreaded the thought of her mind fraying into tatters under the strain of ideas. She voiced the fear to Ekaterine—though without explaining just what had so occupied her thinking—but Ekaterine simply smiled and assured her that it was normal. She had seen countless Shashavani as overwhelmed by contemplation, and they had always regained their senses eventually.
By the first day of October, her strength of will had reasserted itself over her wild thinking. In the afternoon, she went looking for Cousin Robert. She found him in the portrait gallery overlooking the entrance hall. She went veiled, of cours
e—to protect against the afternoon sun and also to maintain her contrived pretense for wearing it in the first place. Robert stood before the portrait of Henry of Rouen, hands clasped behind his back. He glanced at Varanus as she approached and gave a small nod of greeting.
“Good afternoon, Cousin Babette,” he said. “How does the day find you?”
“Well enough,” Varanus replied.
She joined Robert at the portrait and looked up at it. Something about the way that the painted eyes of Henry looked upon her made her feel uneasy. How many family secrets had he hidden? Had he tasted the flesh of man as well?
“I understand that you and Cousin Ekaterine visited the priory crypts the other day,” Robert said.
Varanus turned to look at him, surprised by the comment. Robert should not have known. Indeed, he could not have known. How could he?
“Yes, we were there,” she said. “How did you know that?”
Robert cleared his throat and answered, “One of the gamekeepers mentioned it to me. He must have seen you poking about the ruins.”
“Of course,” Varanus said. “That would explain it.”
Except that it explained nothing. It was impossible that a gamekeeper could have seen them. They had remained below ground the entire time, from entering the tunnels at the church to arriving in the tomb, and back again. They had been above ground during their first visit, but that had been more than a week ago. Robert could not mean that. But no one had been in the crypts with them. How could anyone have known they were there?
“I would urge you not to do so again,” Robert said. He gave a quick smile. “It is dangerous down there. The place could collapse at any time. And the footing is treacherous. I explored it myself in my younger days, which was foolish of me. If something were to happen to you, we would have no way of knowing.”
Varanus forced a pleasant smile and slowly bowed her head.
“Of course, cousin,” she said. “It was quite foolish of us, wasn’t it? Still, Ekaterine is an enthusiast of Gothic literature. I daresay she imagines every old and abandoned place in Europe to be in secret some mysterious Castle of Otranto waiting to be explored. And so we explored it. But we shall be careful to avoid such folly in future, I assure you. After all, poking around in dark places there’s no telling what we might find, is there?”
A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires Page 31