by Lucia Ashta
Marcelo wondered if Salazar knew he was leading them into a trap, or if every path within this castle would have led them right where they were going anyway: straight into the clutches of the Count. There were times in life when all paths led to the same place. Whether destiny or chance, sometimes we ended up in the same place, at the same time, no matter which turns we took to get there.
Marcelo flicked a look behind him. Mordecai was waiting for it. Marcelo looked from his mentor to the hovering bodies, and Mordecai nodded his understanding. Quickly, very quickly for such an old man, Mordecai fell behind Winston and turned the opposite way. Marcelo released his spell over the hovering bodies, and turned it over to Mordecai.
It wouldn’t take Mordecai long to hide Sylvia and his split in one of the empty guest bedrooms on the third floor. But Marcelo had a sinking feeling that every second mattered, and that every one of them would hold in its balance more than he wanted to give.
Yet he didn’t slow to wait for Mordecai. He didn’t stop to think or prepare. The Count had already proven all their plans against him fruitless.
Marcelo wrapped his hand firmly around the hilt of Albacus’ sword and unsheathed it. Salazar turned on him, alarmed, drawing his own sword. When he realized Marcelo didn’t mean to kill him, but his father, Salazar stepped to the side to allow Marcelo to pass.
Salazar couldn’t decide if he wanted Marcelo to kill his father or not, but either way, he wouldn’t do anything to prevent it. That still didn’t mean Marcelo would live beyond this day, and Salazar had to be careful. He’d witnessed the fullness of the Count’s wrath before, and he hoped never to feel it directed at him.
Regardless of what Salazar might or might not want in this situation, its outcome didn’t depend on him. Better to stay out of the way than to side with the losing party. In an attempt at casualness, he pretended to fumble with his sword, allowing Winston, sword already drawn, to pass him too.
By the time Marcelo put a hand to the doorknob that opened the door to the roof, Salazar hadn’t decided whether he’d follow or not. He was surprised not to find Mordecai and the bodies at the end of their pack, but it provided him an unexpected reprieve. He could simply remain within the stairwell and take no part in the fight. If he didn’t fight, he couldn’t choose the wrong side of it.
Marcelo didn’t turn around. Now that he’d begun feeling into things, he believed he could feel his nephew’s inner struggle too. He couldn’t blame him. Little about his life had been as he’d want it to be. Adolescence could be confusing enough without deciphering a lifetime of lies. Perhaps Salazar was better off hiding in the stairwell. At least there he might be safe.
Where Marcelo was heading was decidedly unsafe. He clutched the hilt of Albacus’ sword with the strength of his love for the dead man. It was the first time Marcelo was taking the sword into battle, but Albacus had battled with the sword for centuries. Albacus, I wish to honor your memory. Lend me the strength of which I’m worthy.
Then Marcelo pushed the door open with force and rushed through it without regret or a look to see who was following him. Winston and Salazar might become foes on the roof, as they’d never proven themselves allies. There was little sense in controlling who came onto the roof and who didn’t.
Nothing had been under Marcelo’s control since arriving in Washur. It seemed senseless to expend energy in trying to control what he plainly could not. He suspected that his fate upon this roof had been decided long ago. The best he could do was to step forward to embrace that destiny, whether it held death or continued life.
Even though Winston had successfully attacked Marcelo twice before, his success had relied on the element of surprise, not on the skill of the heir of the House of Chester. Next to the Count, he was not a concern. Next to the Count, hardly anyone was a concern. Marcelo trained his focus on the man he knew to expect there, atop a fortress the Count didn’t really need to protect himself.
The darkness that rolled off the undead Count was greater a force than a hundred fortresses combined. Marcelo stood alone for now, prepared to crash down every single one of its walls.
This would be one of the defining moments of Marcelo’s life. Atop that castle, Marcelo would either die or define himself as a man.
Either way, he couldn’t allow such darkness to continue while he drew breath. Our attack on Washur had metamorphosed into something larger than a rescue mission. What would be the point in rescuing one person, or several, when the Count would be left free to kidnap and harm again, us or anyone else?
The Count of Washur had done everything he could to destroy Marcelo’s life. Now, Marcelo would do everything within his power to destroy the Count.
But it wouldn’t be for revenge. Not anymore. In that moment, with a whipping wind that supported the growing frenzy inside him, Marcelo realized he had to kill the Count simply because it was right. It was up to him to restore the balance between darkness and the light.
A force of such hatred and destruction—and deep and terrible darkness—couldn’t continue to roam the earth, stealing souls from it. The darkness had terrorized humanity long enough. Marcelo would take out one of its great messengers now, or he would die trying.
Marcelo stepped out onto the roof and found the Count waiting for him, just as he’d thought he would be.
Embodying deceit and manipulation at all levels, the man who possessed darkness—or, rather, that had given himself to the darkness so that it might possess him—glowed in the sunlight, so pale it seemed impossible that darkness could live within him. His hair shone so light it was almost white, and his skin lost itself to icy pale eyes.
That bright, sunny afternoon proved what didn’t need to be proven: The impossible was possible. The secret to finding the truth that lay between impossibility and possibility was feeling for it with the heart.
Chapter 43
Many things happened at once. Yet, as with the dragon in the courtyard outside the castle, Marcelo realized who was the most dangerous, and he refused to move his gaze or his focus from the Count of Washur. Any other threat that swarmed onto the roof might also prove deadly, but there was a possibility that it would not. With the Count, the threat of death, and the ability to carry through on that threat, was a certainty.
Marcelo locked eyes with the Count. Bright eyes and ice eyes danced a deadly tango. The eyes were the windows to the soul—if the Count no longer had a soul, then the eyes would betray his secret—and the curtains were about to descend one final time across one set of windows, more final than any act in any play. There would be no encores.
Count Washur stood with a deceptively casual stance. Even though Marcelo’s sword was blatantly drawn, Washur did no more than place a hand atop the hilt of his own.
Washur spoke, but didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Marcelo took two steps toward Washur, although the roof still spread wide between them.
“What pathetic creatures you all are. I set every path to arrive here, and still it took you so long to deduce that there’s no avoiding this fate. I grew bored.” Washur looked bored, even with that revolting look of haughtiness. It was apparent that, to Washur, Marcelo and his friends, even me, were little more than playthings to pass the time that strolled toward eternity.
“There was no way around this. You do know that, right?”
Marcelo bristled, but tried to hide it. It was disconcerting to hear the Count voice conclusions he had reached only moments before exiting onto the roof—although when he considered them, he interpreted them with notions of strength and empowerment. Marcelo struggled now, hoping his struggle was internal, to continue thinking of his destiny in terms of choice and power.
He knew the Count was a master of beguiling deceit. He twisted words until they turned on their owners as unexpectedly as a rabid dog might turn on its master. Marcelo willed himself to keep his mind sharp. The Count’s tongue was more dangerous than his still-sheathed sword.
The Count continued. “I even showed Clara th
e way here. I was very clear, and still the stupid girl hasn’t arrived.”
Anger flared in Marcelo’s eyes before he could rein it in, and he knew the Count had seen it. The corners of the Count’s lips turned slightly upward, although it was unclear whether he meant it as a smile or a snarl. His teeth were too sharp and too thin, as if they were not human.
“Perhaps I overestimated her value. I only want her if she’s powerful. If not, you can keep her. For however long I might continue to let you live, at least.”
Cruelty sparked life in the dead blue of the Count’s eyes. “Once I’m finished with her, of course. It wouldn’t be right to deny a man his fun.”
Marcelo advanced a few more steps toward the Count. The Count still didn’t draw his sword. His arrogance showed; he didn’t consider Marcelo a significant threat.
“There is a particular intrigue in sharing the pleasure of sisters. Maybe I’ll keep Clara after all. I’ve already found her sister to be worth keeping. Isn’t that right, Mina?”
The Count turned to look down past the parapet, maybe onto a ledge below. Although his body stance remained casual, Marcelo noticed that the Count only stole his gaze to the cat for a second. Immediately after, his stare pinned Marcelo.
“Why don’t you join us, my dear? I’m sure your sister will want to see you, if the stupid wench ever figures out how to get here.”
Marcelo kept his eyes trained on the threat in front of him, but followed Mina’s actions with his peripheral vision. Even in the body of a cat, Clara’s sister was graceful, just as Clara was. Mina jumped onto the parapet behind the Count, ginger feet landing easily.
The Count reached a hand behind him to pet Mina. Marcelo fought a wave of revulsion. It was plain that Gertrude did as well, her eyes fixed on Marcelo. Every strand of auburn hair across her feline body stood on end, and her bushy tail was still and upright. It was the stance of a cat about to attack, held at bay only by unfortunate circumstances.
Marcelo heard footsteps behind him again, interrupting the silence at his back since he’d walked out onto the roof. The footfalls approached Marcelo, and he was about to turn to look, even if it meant breaking the Count’s stare, when the steps began to move away from him.
Soon, Winston walked past him, making his allegiance evident as he stood to the side of the Count, sword drawn, facing down Marcelo. Winston was the product of a cruel household much like Bundry had been for Marcelo when he was a boy. But Winston had learned the lesson Marcelo refused: Physical superiority brings power; it’s better to inflict pain than to suffer it.
Winston had the overtones of a puppy seeking his master’s affection, but neither Winston nor the Count acknowledged it. In fact, Washur didn’t acknowledge Winston at all. Still, Winston stood next to the man, knowing that Washur didn’t particularly care for him and could kill him at a whim. This was the life to which Winston was accustomed.
A life among powerful men was a dangerous one. Winston had learned to secure his safety early on by aligning with the biggest bully around. And if there was no bully bigger than him at the time, he took on the role.
Marcelo strained to listen for more footsteps. Yet there were none—not yet. Salazar was not on the roof. He wasn’t choosing sides. Although by not joining his father on the roof, Washur might see his son as having made his choice. Just by remaining in the stairwell, Salazar was taking a risk.
The seed of hope and truth had sprouted.
Marcelo cut the distance between him and the Count by half, walking with purpose. If Marcelo was to face the Count alone—at half his capacity—then so be it.
“You will not touch Clara, nor will you further touch Lady Gertrude. I will free those you have imprisoned with your hatred.”
The Count laughed, a hard, inelegant chuckle that would’ve frozen Marcelo to the bones if he hadn’t summoned all his courage and conviction beforehand for this battle. “Is that what you think, little man?”
Marcelo wasn’t little. And he knew it. In fact, he half wished the Count would continue with his belittling comments. Marcelo was used to them. It was how his father had treated Clarissa and him as children. Disparaging comments didn’t make Marcelo feel little as their speakers intended. Rather, they gave birth to courage and strength. It was the way it had always been with him.
“It’s more than what I think.”
The Count’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch.
“It’s something I know.” Marcelo’s words were not a play of intimidation. It was unlikely that Marcelo could intimidate Washur, and he knew it. Simply, it was the truth. There were things that Marcelo knew now that he might not have known before, but that he felt with a certainty that told him he could have always known these truths, if he’d just been open to them.
“I’ll free my friends from your grip. I’ll rid the world of your darkness.” Or I’ll die in the attempt, Marcelo thought. Either way, he wouldn’t stop.
Marcelo watched Count Washur reach this same conclusion. The Count drew his sword. “And how do you plan on doing that, when you are no more than a boy seeking approval from his father?” Washur smiled again. This time, the smile reached his eyes. “But poor boy. You’ll never receive your father’s approval now, will you? After all, you killed him.”
“I didn’t kill the man, nor did I kill my father. I rid this world of a servant of darkness. It isn’t murder when the soul is gone.”
“Hmmm. Interesting theory, little one. Is that what you think you’ll do with me? Do you not think it murder if you were to take my life?”
“I know it wouldn’t be. You have no soul. You have no light. If all you are anymore is darkness, then killing you is not taking your life. It is, instead, a freeing of the light you once held from a self-imposed prison.”
“Is that so, you miserable piece of worthlessness?” The Count marched toward Marcelo now, a ferocious snarl locked in place that revealed that Marcelo’s comments had struck a nerve.
Washur had long denied the truth Marcelo spoke. It had been many centuries since the nearly immortal man had even considered the potential loss of his soul, or the one question that used to consume him: Who, or what, really held the power? Was it he with all the power darkness could offer him? Or was it the darkness that made him crave its power as much as any opium addict yearned for the sweet poppy, offering the Count a fix with so many conditions attached to the taking? And the Count always took. Which meant that he also always gave.
Marcelo’s words gave life to an ancient struggle, and the Count tamped down any wild notion that fought for control, wanting to suggest that what the Count had given was already too much.
The Count left Winston and Mina standing where they were. Each moment, they were a step further behind. Each step revealed that Winston wasn’t Washur’s ally, but rather another one of his pawns. Even Winston realized how apparent that was then, but he wasn’t surprised. It was possible that no one had ever cared for Winston, not even his mother. Perhaps his parents had felt affection for him at one point, but his value as a pawn in a game of power was nothing new to him.
Marcelo held his ground, but he didn’t advance. At this rate, the Count would reach him soon enough. The younger magician steadied his feet on the roof, gripped the hilt of his sword—of Albacus’ sword—with two hands, and held it in front of him.
He watched the last steps of Washur’s approach beyond a blade that could take his life—his human body—as it had many others before him. The sunlight reflected off the sword’s edge, gleaming upon the sharpened point. It was as if Marcelo were a warrior of the light, and his sword aflame with that very light.
Unlike vampires that were rumored to shy away from the light, the Count proved that he wasn’t the legendary Vlad Dracula—unless the rumors of vampire weaknesses were wrong, and then nothing more was proven than that Washur seemed as awful as any vampire might be. Washur closed the distance between them, and struck at Marcelo.
Immediately, the clinking and clanking of battle brok
e the rigid silence upon the roof that had held all the tension of imminent conflict, of a clashing between light and dark.
The sounds of metal upon metal slashed through the air until Mordecai reached the roof, with Salazar in tow. It wasn’t that Marcelo needed his mentor’s assistance at the moment. It was merely Mordecai’s rage at seeing the Count attempting to inflict pain on another man he loved.
Over the centuries, Mordecai had learned to control his temper. The days of his youth when he allowed his impulses to reign had faded almost three hundred years ago. He’d learned that, with long life, came ample opportunity to regret rash decisions. Caution and reason had replaced blind passion. He’d subdued his emotions even better than Albacus had.
But in that moment, watching that hideous pale head bob in an otherwise fine day, intent on murder, Mordecai wanted to feed his rage. He wanted to let loose his subverted desire for vengeance. He wanted to right the many wrongs for which Washur was responsible. He didn’t care to be mature, not in the least. And if he’d earned any right as an old man, it was to do whatever the hell he wanted, whenever the hell he wanted. In fact, he might choose to live that way always, and to hell with the consequences.
In that moment, ferocity was supreme.
Mordecai didn’t wait to allow Marcelo his rightful vengeance of sister, father, and nephew. He roared a great and terrible roar that startled even Washur. It was filled with righteousness, and it echoed across the roof, bounced off the stone perimeter, and roiled across the valley.
That roar was the exclamation point on a propulsion of power. Mordecai hurled all the raw elements that were willing to join him in that moment toward Washur.
It turned out that none of the four elements, neither air, water, fire, nor earth, cared for the Count’s manipulations and distortions of their purity for dark purposes. All of the elements, even the hidden fifth that tied together all magic, sped toward Washur. They took him down before he could even blink at the intrusion or shield himself from an entirely different kind of attack than the one with which Marcelo threatened him.