Never Show Fear

by Nicola Claire

  Because otherwise, I would feel compelled to return.

  As I am doing right now, it seems.

  I attempt to sleep. The steward coaxes food into me. I am not fooled. He has done so on Gregor’s orders. I feel for the human, so I eat. Gregor pretends not to notice. He is busy.

  Gregor Morel notices everything.

  By the time we land in Cairo, I am exhausted. The sun has risen again and fallen away to nothing. Stars greet us, and the hum of my homeland wraps around me. I am home, and yet I am not.

  I miss Wellington City.

  But I do not miss the Pull.

  It is everywhere. The pull to hunt. The call to stake a rogue vampire. Someone has let loose a formidable army of rogues on the streets, and my brethren are hunting. I hear their song. My Light rises to join them. Together we call out the hunt.

  Gregor stops me.

  “Wait,” he says, studying me with a strange look in his eyes. A look that says he hadn’t truly seen me before and now he is seeing me for the very first time.

  “They need my help,” I tell him, pulling from his - admittedly - weak grip. Something has thrown the Master of Wellington City. Perhaps it is seeing me on Cairo’s streets. Perhaps it is something he has discovered on the Iunctio.

  Whatever it is, it is about me.

  “Amisi Minyawi,” he says, stunned. “I did not know.”

  “Know what?” I snap, because the hunting song is growing frantic, and I fear several voices have dropped off; along with their Light.

  The city grows Darker and yet with the silver and platinum glow from Gregor Morel’s eyes, I do not feel quite so alone in the shadows.

  “You are descendant from the Kings of Minya,” he says softly.

  “I am,” I reply because to hide my heritage is to be embarrassed by it. I am not embarrassed. I am proud to be Minyawi.

  “You’re a princess.”

  “Some have called me angel,” I tell him.

  He does not smile.

  He is shocked.

  The Minya Dynasty stopped with my brother. He never married. Never had children. I am a princess without a throne to rule. Had I been born a boy, I would be a king.

  I am nothing.

  I lift my chin. “It is the past. My present is all that matters.”

  “I agree,” Gregor surprises me by saying. “But your past has come calling, ma ange. Shall we greet it with sharp teeth?”

  I blink at him. He withdraws his cell phone and types out a message. A text comes back, and he turns the device for me to see.

  The face that greets me is an old foe — one who has visited me in my nightmares.

  And four times in reality.

  “I know him,” I say because I cannot forget the vampire who killed my father’s brother.

  Gregor looks frightful in his anger.

  “He cannot have you,” he says.

  “He can have my stake,” I tell him.

  His turn to blink. And then he’s leaning forward and kissing me.

  It is swift and sure and full of possession. I allow it. Because it is my destiny.

  I have known for some time, but I have fought it. Gregor fights it still. He will not test our compatibility in our realm. But that does not make it untrue.

  Gregor Morel is to be my kindred Nosferatu. I have seen it in the stars. I have seen it in our combined auras. I taste it on his lips.

  In my home city, under the watchful eye of our goddess Nut, I know this.

  Tonight I kiss my kindred for the first time.

  And tonight I will bring the final death to my uncle’s killer.

  * * *

  The vampire who killed my father’s brother carried out the unfathomable deed when I was thirteen. Practically a woman by some standards. Still a child by others. I had idolised my uncle. He was more of a father to me than my father had been. He had been everything.

  I trained with him each morning when the vampires went to their coffins to sleep. And again each night under his supervision when the vampires rose to greet the moon and stars and feed.

  He was my world. A world inside a palace inside a city ruled by a vampire queen.

  I had thought my life perfect.

  I had been wrong.

  My uncle died at six in the evening while we were practising.

  I look across the road to the palace I have called home for over a decade and know it is six in the evening.

  My uncle died in that palace while I wielded a khopesh somewhat expertly.

  I have never picked such a sword up again.

  Gregor looks toward me.

  “There are no guards,” he says.

  “There should be,” I agree.

  “Do we stroll up and ring the doorbell?”

  I stare at the palace’s façade and feel a shudder run through my aura.

  He is waiting.

  Not Gregor, although he is waiting for an answer.

  No. The vampire who killed my father’s brother is waiting for me.

  “This is an old wound which he tears open,” I say slowly. “You are not obliged to attend it, vampyre.”

  The use of formal language makes Gregor’s entire frame still. He stops breathing.

  Then he slowly sucks in a breath of air. “I will not leave you to such a wound without a weapon.”

  “I am my own weapon.”

  “And I am but a tool in your arsenal, Angel. Use me.”

  I nod my head. I am not above utilising such a weapon. And I do not think Gregor would leave me. It is strangely comforting.

  And then I realise there is nothing strange about this vampire being with me.

  “Master of the City,” I say. “Welcome to Cairo.”

  He grins at me. “Let the games begin.”

  “Wrong city.”

  He laughs as we cross the street.

  The door is ajar, which is unusual. There are claw marks on the wood which were not there the last time I visited. I push the thought of that visit aside. It had been Nafrini’s wake and Nero’s funeral. I do not need the distraction and heartache.

  I smell blood and scent my family. The two are not mutually exclusive. My hands fist.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I gauge the time by the placement of the moon and push through the door. Inside, the palace is in shadows. Sounds of battle are faint up ahead as if heard through a closed door or from a great distance. Or behind the walls of a ward.

  I pull my dagger and then contemplate what faces us. A stake slips into my spare hand, and I stride forward. Gregor is a shadow at my back: heavy, comforting, inexorable. I do not know him well yet, but I do know this: he will fight to the death beside me.

  Not many can claim a vampire’s allegiance like that.

  I roll my head on my shoulders and practice my breathing exercises. The ones my uncle taught me and Nero insisted I do every training session. They are second nature to me now, and I feel my heart rate settle.

  It does not pay to face a vampire with a racing heartbeat.

  We cross the entrance hall and wend our way through the palace proper. The moon shines through the intricately carved screens adorning the windows. Incense burns in the dining hall. Meals have been left out; uneaten.

  From here, I could walk through the kitchens and out toward the sound of battle, but I deviate and take the stairs on the left which will ultimately lead to the roof, but not before they pass by Nafrini’s quarters.

  Someone may have claimed her rooms already, but I think not. This battle serves two purposes. One: the vampire who killed my father’s brother wishes to claim Nafrini’s territory. And two: the vampire who killed my father’s brother wishes to claim me.

  I am the last Nosferatin of my line. My brother is gone and did not have children before his untimely death. My great uncle and his kindred died two years ago in a territorial dispute north of here. I am the last Minyawi.

  Some might say that is not such a bad thing. My ancestors were brutal when they had to be. But it is a brutal wor
ld we are born into, and sometimes brutality is all that stands between the Light and the Dark.

  It is how I was raised.

  But I am the last of my kind. And the Minyawi were once kings.

  We have power.

  I have power.

  I feel it swell under my breastbone. I feel it surge to my fingertips. Light leaks out and Gregor clears his throat softly. Perhaps it is uncomfortable. Or perhaps he simply does not like being blinded before a battle.

  I break the seal on Nafrini’s door, thankful it is in place and proves her quarters have not been disturbed since the wake. I push through and scent my vampire queen.

  And others.

  I scent Nero. But he is gone.

  I swallow past the lump in my throat and cross to Nafrini’s desk. I bypass the beautiful carved piece of furniture and press against an innocuous spot in the wall panel at the back of the room. It clicks open, but no light illuminates the space revealed. Which tells me the power is out to the entire building.

  He caught them while they ate and blinded them before he struck.

  I force myself not to feel anything.

  From memory, I reach into the space and pull out a sword. A khopesh. It is the first time I have held one since my uncle’s death. I tilt the curved blade until the light of the moon through a nearby window catches it. I reach in and uplift its sister sword. Then I swivel my wrists, making the blades sing.

  The hunting song begins afresh.

  “Impressive,” Gregor murmurs.

  “They were Nafrini’s,” I say unnecessarily, getting used to their weight after such a long time apart. “It is fitting they will take the head of the vampire who challenged her.”

  “He challenged her?”

  I flick my eyes to Gregor’s face. He’s watching the blades, not me, so he doesn’t catch my grimace.

  “The challenge went unmet,” I say, and close the panel behind me.

  “I would not have thought one so old as Nafrini…”

  “She was protecting someone.”

  Gregor studies me. “I see.”

  “Now, the challenge will be met,” I say.

  “Will you claim this territory?” he asks as if I am a vampire to do such a thing.

  “Of course not. But he cannot be allowed to live. Death and Darkness walk here. He has soiled the home of my family.”

  Gregor hesitates and then says softly, “Lead the way.”

  I stalk out of Nafrini’s quarters and climb the stone steps to the roof of the palace. The battle is still raging, and blood taints the air, but the sounds and scents are muted.

  “There’s a ward at play,” Gregor says as we access the rooftop.

  “Yes.”

  “Your plan?”

  “Break it. Save the day.”

  “I like the way you think, ma ange.”

  I grin, my eyes darting over the garden courtyard below and unable to pick up a thing.

  The moon forsakes the flowers and trees. The bench seat I sat on with my grandmother when the vampire who killed my father’s brother overheard our conversation in the Old Tongue is hidden from me. I can’t scent the chrysanthemum or the lotus. There is no apple tea.

  But this is my home. My palace. My family.

  I pull on the power that begs to be used, that is wrapped up in some way with my Light, and dive off the rooftop, arms outstretched, khopeshes catching the moon’s light.

  Gregor shouts something from behind me and then I hear him jump, his clothes flapping in the breeze. He has to know, the ward is intact. A dome that covers the entire gardens. But he follows me anyway.

  I don’t have time to think about that.

  My Light flares, the power that is my family’s to claim bursts forth, and then the shattering sound of a ward breaking pierces the night air.

  Behind it are other things. Screams and wails and voices breaking as they plead for mercy and the hunting song; fractured and weak, but still singing.

  I raise my voice to theirs, lending my weight, my strength, my birthright, and slash down with my blades as I land on the grass in the centre of the gardens; crouched, arms outstretched, head bowed, blades glinting red in the moonlight.

  A vampire who had been torturing a cousin collapses and turns to dust. His head on one side of my blades. His body on the other.

  Gregor lands beside me with equal grace. I stand, swivel my wrists, make the khopeshes wink in the dim light of the moon, and sing the song of vengeance.

  My family, what is left of it, raises their voices with me. Though many are weak and failing, their willpower is unrivalled. I am proud this night.

  I turn slowly, noting the vampires spread around the space. Some have let go of their quarry to face me. Some are still; vampire still. Frozen in place.

  “I am Amisi Chione Minyawi of the Minya Dynasty, and you are trespassing!”

  My voice rings out around the walled garden, but no one, not human, Nosferatin or vampire, moves.

  “I am Amisi Chione Minyawi, Nosferatin to Nafrini Al-Suyuti, and you are trespassing!”

  The form of a tall man emerges from the shadows. He is dressed in a suit; out of place in Cairo. He strolls through the vampires and my kin as if he already owns the place. He owns those vampires still walking, but he does not own my family or me.

  I lift my chin and stare him in the eyes. It is only a second, no more. He misses his chance and does not ensnare me with a glaze.

  “Child,” he says in that infuriating European accent. So clichéd. So Bela Lugosi. “I have been waiting for you.”

  Gregor shifts at my side, drawing the vampire’s attention.

  “Enforcer,” the vampire says, his voice not as cajoling. “You have no jurisdiction here.”

  “That remains to be seen, László.”

  He knows him. For a moment, I am stunned. Does Gregor know this vile creature because they are friends? Acquaintances? Have they hunted together in Europe; Gregor is from Rome, but he spent decades in Paris. He has made a new start in Wellington, but he has a history I am not aware of. Does that history include the vampire who killed my father’s brother?

  And then I pull the weight of Nut around my shoulders. Wrap myself in her Light. I twirl the blades. Make them sing. Their song is not one of mine, not for many years now, but I lean on their music for tonight.

  I stand tall and straight and face my future. A future that is shadowed in the heartache of my past.

  “This is not a concern for the Iunctio,” László says. “This territory is unclaimed, and as is my right, I am claiming it. None has stood against me. This is a clean shift of power.”

  I glance around the garden at the bodies. Some are my close kin. Some are merely those I call cousin; those I was raised alongside of. I see my grandmother. She is still breathing, but her hands are bound, and a rag has been stuffed in her mouth, and her eyes are blazing with ire.

  They catch mine. I see her rage. I see her pain. I see her regret that I have come and will be sacrificed.

  I offer a small shake of my head.

  No more shall be sacrificed this night.

  I step forward. Gregor has not even had a chance to reply. I raise the khopesh in my right hand, holding it in front of my face— the khopesh in my left-hand sweeps out and down and away. I bow. Then come upright.

  “This city is still unclaimed,” I announce. “I challenge the newcomer!”

  “Amisi,” Gregor says quietly and frantically at my side. “Don’t do this.”

  “Tell Lucinda, I am sorry,” I say.

  “Tell her yourself when we go home again.”

  “This is my home, vampyre. This is the land of my father and his father and his father before him. I am Minyawi. This is my birthright.” I look at the vampire who killed my father’s brother. “This kill is mine to claim.”

  “Will the Iunctio allow this?” László asks with derision.

  Gregor stares into my eyes when I turn to see his reaction. This challenge is legal, but it is also
an old rule, an ancient caveat, and the Iunctio may not see it that way. To claim a challenge, I must first be considered the rightful protector of the territory in the absence of its Master Vampyre. Nafrini is dead. None here are suitable to claim her place. I could hold it. But not for long.

  This is a death sentence either way.

  I am more than I appear, Gregor, I shout inside my head. I may be young, but I am strong. I am a Minyawi!

  “Don’t die,” he whispers and then turns to László and says, “The Iunctio recognises the right of Amisi Chione Minyawi to defend this territory from the newcomer.”

  He could buy me roses. He could gift me chocolates and jewellery and fine clothes. But he could never offer more than he has just offered me now. His gift of trust is priceless.

  I am humbled. I can feel myself shaking.

  Gregor offers me one last hard look and then steps back. The vampires still standing pull those too weak to move back as well, creating a wide, open space in the centre of the walled garden for us to face off against each other.

  “Nosferatin,” the vampire who killed my father’s brother says. He does not imbue it with Sanguis Vitam, that would be ill-mannered under the circumstances, but his use of the name of my kind is a message; he will test me if it lets him win. If it means his survival.

  Survive at all costs; a vampire’s number one rule.

  Right now, vengeance is sweet is mine.

  I bow again, swishing the khopeshes through the still and heavy air. I come upright, and the vampire is already springing toward me.

  I laugh and spin and watch him skid to a halt several steps away.

  “The night you killed my father’s brother,” I say conversationally, “I was practising with these exact same swords.” I twirl them again for effect. I am being dramatic, but the moment warrants it.

  “I did not kill your father’s brother.”

  I spin. He dances away. The khopeshes miss their mark, but I wasn’t trying to connect. He had been about to flash toward me, and I am not done playing.

  “You killed his kindred,” I say.

  “Who was his kindred vampire?”

  He doesn’t even remember the name.

  “I was standing about here,” I continue, not answering. I glance about the place and nod my head. “Yes, here, I think. My uncle was standing where you are standing; instructing me on the correct technique to use when trying to take the head off a vampire with a khopesh.”