The Guide (A Legacy Series Novella) (The Legacy Series Book 2)

by Sheritta Bitikofer

  “I thought she was in camp?” Giovanni questioned, his voice little more than a raspy attempt to speak.

  “She snuck out,” Michael replied, one hand against Tor’s furry chest that glistened with blood. The wound in his shoulder appeared deep and one whiff of the burning flesh told Giovanni it was no normal bullet.

  “I shouldn’t have let her leave camp,” Yaverik added. “I heard her by the horses.”

  Tor lifted his wolfish head and stared at Giovanni with penetrating golden eyes that froze him in place. He admired the Egyptian, probably more than either of the vampires that were present. Giovanni was still wary of him, since their guide was not human, but he preferred Tor’s company over any of them, even the blood servants. Finally seeing him this way, as a beast and not a man, however, made him question that.

  On the outside, Tor appeared just as normal as any other man most of the time. The vampires had their unusual paleness to set them apart from the crowd, but the werewolves could hide in plain sight. Perhaps that was why Giovanni could forget what Tor was when they talked of philosophy and the history of the Egyptian civilization. Standing before the werewolf now, Giovanni could not forget that he was still a dangerous, preternatural monster.

  “I knew she would come looking for Tor,” Michael said, pulling Giovanni out of the trance. “I allowed her to go.” He looked over his shoulder, his eyes searching the forest. “Her kidnappers are long gone. Whoever they were, they must have gone back to Istanbul.”

  Tor’s lips curled back into a sinister growl, and Giovanni jumped, wondering if the beast even knew who he was.

  “We will get her back,” Michael assured the group. “Whoever these men were, they knew our weaknesses.”

  Giovanni knew this couldn’t be his doing. Not yet. Those men weren’t supposed to intercept them until much later in the journey. Whoever these men who attacked Tor were, must have had their own agenda.

  Tor’s muzzle opened, his white fangs flashing as he tried to form words. Even as a beast, the Egyptian was intelligent and cognitive. Giovanni couldn’t help but be both astounded and terrified.

  Michael shushed him. “We have to get you taken care of first.”

  “I will find her,” Yaverik proclaimed, taking a step forward like some valiant warrior. The vampire was far from that. No doubt he was putting on a show for his mentor. One would have to be blind not to notice the way Yaverik looked at Jane. If Michael thought him a brave and courageous man, perhaps he would grant Jane’s hand to his apprentice. Giovanni prayed to the merciful God in heaven that He would not permit such a thing.

  Tor snapped and snarled at Yaverik, and the vampire repaid him in kind with a hiss.

  Michael slashed his hand through the air between the two enemies. “Enough!” he snapped. “The three of us will go after her once we get the bullet out of Tor’s shoulder.”

  It was a wonder that Michael could stay calm at all. His daughter had been spirited away by men who clearly harbored malintent for the supernatural. She could have been dead already, but Michael must have known something the others didn’t.

  “Perhaps I may be of assistance?” Giovanni offered, following the other men as they made their way back to the camp.

  Michael waved him off. “It is too dangerous for a human to take on men who know how to kill things more powerful than you.”

  Giovanni wasn’t sure whether to be touched by his padrone’s concern for his mortal soul, or insulted that Michael didn’t think him capable of staying alive. It was true that Giovanni was more at home in a library or safely exploring the known world with a team of guides and protectors. He was not proficient with a sword, but he knew things that others did not. He was a man of knowledge, not of strength.

  He banked the argument for later as Tor let out a shrill whine. The silver must have been excruciating.

  “Why wouldn’t the men make sure he was dead before taking Jane?” Giovanni asked as he watched the way the powerful werewolf swayed and stumbled through the brush.

  “They might have thought he was alone,” Yaverik answered. “A wolf without his pack would surely die from a wound like this. The silver would ensure the wound would never heal and Tor would bleed out before morning.”

  “It’s a good thing he’s not alone then,” Giovanni said with poignant emphasis.

  Yaverik caught his hidden meaning and slid a threatening glance his way.

  “Yes,” Michael said. “While we are on this journey, we are responsible for one another.” The elder vampire shot his apprentice a look and Giovanni felt as if he and his padrone, were finally on one accord, when it came to the reckless and spiteful manner in which Yaverik behaved at times.

  If nothing else, Giovanni would have loved to tag along on their rescue mission, just to witness the mayhem that would unfold between the werewolf and vampire.

  5

  Sneaking past the perimeter guards was easy enough. Convincing Yaverik to slow his pace and stay with Tor and Michael was another matter entirely. As soon as they caught onto the hunters’ trail, the younger vampire sped ahead of his mentor at every available chance. Speed proved to be a useful tool in evading the notice of the guards, but Michael had made it perfectly clear that he wanted them to work as a team. Tor begrudgingly agreed, while Yaverik continued to contest the wisdom of bringing so many along to rescue Jane.

  For once, Tor wanted to agree with him. He should have gone alone and left the rest at camp. It was Tor’s fault that Jane was captured. The silver bullet in his shoulder pierced through the thin wall of consciousness between him and his wolf and the pain was keenly felt by both. It had been years since he felt such agony. Not since his father died. Not since he had caused another catastrophe like this one.

  Before they left, Michael had tried to console him as he pried out the round pellet of silver from Tor’s wolf flesh, but nothing could persuade Tor to believe that any of this was not his doing. As Michael said, they were all responsible for one another on this journey and Tor was the only one who could have saved Jane. Over and over in his mind, he replayed his mistakes and berated himself for his foolishness.

  He should have stayed closer to camp. He should have known that the hunters were close. He should have kept Jane from running after his would-be executioner the moment he knew the bullet was silver. He should have pushed through the pain and attacked the hunter himself. It would have vindicated not only himself but in some way, the death of his father as well; yet another death that could have been avoided if he had done better. If he had been better.

  Now in his human form and dressed in a loose linen shirt and pair of trousers, Tor squeezed his eyes shut as they crouched behind a band of shrubs within sight of the fortress wall. He couldn’t let the guilt resurface or everything would be compromised. He could hear his father’s words hammer in his ears. Stay focused. Stay focused.

  Michael’s hand gripped his arm, cold fingers latching over his bare skin so suddenly that Tor started. They locked stares and Tor knew that Michael could sense his grief. He could fool Jane, Yaverik, and even Giovanni into believing that he was too proud and strong to feel anything but loyalty and duty to his priesthood. However, Michael knew better. He would always know that Tor was not all right beneath his cool exterior.

  Hearing Jane scream earlier as he lay bleeding had splintered the hatch that he had kept shut over his remorse for so long. Up until just a few hours ago, he had been able to lock away the tragedy that left him alone in the world. Yes, he had revisited the memory a few times, grazing over it like a bug would skim over the calm surface of the water, but never dwelling or delving deeper into the truth. Tor’s father was dead because of him. If they were too late, Jane’s blood would be on his hands as well.

  He gave a quick nod to Michael, confirming that he was good to carry on with the mission. Yaverik, who stooped on the other side of Michael, was jumpy and eager to dash toward the stone stronghold where Jane’s trail led.

  Across the top battlement were guards
– hunters – wielding crossbows, whose tips flashed in the moonlight. Each of them were covered in black clothing, almost indistinguishable from the darkness around them. Only the light of the moon that shined upon their heads and shoulders gave them away. Tor listened, but the inside of the hunters’ headquarters was fairly quiet. Some operatives were snoring, while others talked softly. Tor could still not understand their words, but Michael appeared to.

  Michael turned to Tor to relay their conversation. “They took the garlic out, but she’s still unconscious. They don’t know for how long.” Michael shook his head. “These men don’t know what to do with a vampire,” he said. “Those who hunt us wouldn’t have kept her alive.”

  “Obviously, they were expecting her when they came after me,” Tor said. “One doesn’t bring something they think they won’t need. Either they intended to come after her as well, or these hunters are not as they appear.” He looked back to the fortress, searching their high walls for any sign of weakness.

  He guessed it might have been an ancient palace or castle in centuries before, but had been abandoned and taken over by the hunters to suit their own purposes. In Egypt, those who assassinated his fellow priests hid away in recessed caves on the rocky outcroppings in the desert. They preferred to have the higher ground and it put his priesthood at a disadvantage, since the only way to reach them would be to climb the face of the cliff. Tor could still see two of his father’s closest friends being picked off with arrows before they even reached halfway.

  Here, the guards still had the strategical advantage, but Tor could dodge their crossbow bolts far easier on the ground. Both Michael and Yaverik could match him in speed, so the question remained how they would infiltrate the compound.

  “Where is she being kept?” Yaverik demanded, glaring at Tor as if he should have known already.

  “In the cellar beneath the courtyard,” he replied as he ignored the apprentice’s disrespectful tone and took a deep whiff to find her vampiric scent through the cluster of humans.

  Almost predictably, Yaverik leapt over the shrubs and plunged forward into the open field between the forest and the main gateway. Michael started to reprimand his apprentice, but Tor pursued Yaverik before the mentor had a chance.

  Sure enough, the hunters’ quick reflexes caught the swift movement of the vampire and turned their crossbows upon Yaverik. The trajectory of the arrows was positioned just right that they would have pierced his chest, if Tor hadn’t intercepted.

  Tor overtook Yaverik and tackled him to the ground. The razor edge of one arrowhead sliced into Tor’s upper arm, but continued on its path to stick into the ground. His flesh burned for a moment and blood seeped into the crisp cloth of his tunic sleeve just before it began to heal.

  “Fool!” Tor growled in Yaverik’s ear as the vampire struggled against him to rise again.

  On the battlements, the hunters were reloading for a second volley.

  He grabbed Yaverik by the collar of his rigid vest and tossed him against the wall of the fortress, so they would be somewhat out of range from the crossbows. The hunters could only aim down so far.

  He heard Michael come up behind them. Tor turned just in time to see an arrow pierce into the vampire’s thigh. Michael grunted and managed to press himself against the cool stone before another volley rained down.

  The alarm had been raised, all because of Yaverik’s impatience. Tor would have beaten him to dust if they had the time. The apprentice didn’t even bother to check if his mentor was all right. Instead, Tor was the first to Michael’s side to assess the damage.

  Michael snapped the arrow’s shaft and with painful force, slid it from his flesh. Blood gushed from the wound on both sides of his thigh as he hissed, his long fangs bared. When he lifted his eyes, Tor flinched away from the red glare he hadn’t seen before. The whites of his eyes were completely blackened, while the usual gentle brown was replaced by a menacing crimson.

  Tor gave him a wary look, wondering if the change in his eye color was anything similar to when his own eyes changed to gold. It meant the beast within was close, ready to strike. Would Michael attack in his rage and pain?

  His lips closed over his pearly teeth and jerked his chin towards the gate, showing he was ready to continue. Tor looked over his shoulder, but Yaverik was nowhere along the outer wall. The acrid stench of blood filled the air, and Tor knew well enough that it was human blood spilled, not Michael’s.

  Less than a second later, Tor heard a scream shatter the chaos. Michael cursed in his native tongue and limped towards the open gate that was blockaded by a band of hunters. Yaverik stood in the center, holding a severed head by the scalp. The mutilated body of the hunter lay at the vampire’s feet. Tor didn’t think the arrogant vampire who dreaded getting his hands dirty on this expedition could be so brutal. To Tor, it gave slightly more credibility to Yaverik’s character, that he was willing to kill for a cause. Yet, was it the cause he fought for, or the blood lust?

  The air was electrified, like during a thunder storm, alive with clashing hatred, both sides with their own goals to destroy the other. Both thought themselves righteous in their mission, that they were doing what was good for the betterment of the whole.

  The hunters raised their crossbows to fire upon the three ill-prepared invaders, their eyes blazing behind the black shrouds that cloaked their faces.

  Faceless and nameless, but Tor knew their kind just as well as they knew his. They wanted nothing more than to see Tor and his companions dead, the world a little safer because there were a few less monsters in it. In the same way, he knew that he couldn’t allow them to live. He thought of the pack of werewolves in Istanbul, of the boys who had not yet grown into their gift. If the hunters had their way, every last one of them would be killed, no matter the cost, just like those of their creed killed off the priesthood.

  Images flooded back, of a skirmish and white linen robes stained by the blood of his friends and family. Mangled bodies, their wounds coated in the sands of the desert that slowly buried them. They were forgotten by time, surrendered to the harsh and unforgiving land that had once given them life. His father lay in his arms, choking out his last words as he bled out from the gash in his neck that was incapable of healing because of the silver blade that had cut him down.

  He would not let this end in disaster.

  In the time it took for one of the hunters to blink, Tor’s shirt was off and he charged ahead of Yaverik. He felt an arrow lodge in his side, but the shift into his beast form loosened it and the shaft dropped from his body.

  He roared, the wolf and man now one as it had been earlier that night. The change was much less painless and more seamless than it would have been on any other night. This was the beast’s time to roam, to hunt, and to be free. The wolf remembered Jane’s scream and feeling her soft touch in his fur. There would be no man or vampire alive who could stop the beast from seeking his revenge.

  The hunters fired and Tor felt the silver sear into his flesh, but he continued. In a flurry of fangs and claws, Tor tore into every last man who tried to detain him. Arrows, knives, and swords all found purchase on his body but still he raged.

  Tor was vaguely aware of Michael and Yaverik joining the battle behind him, though there was nearly no need. Within a matter of seconds, the hunters were slaughtered, their lifeblood consecrating this ground as a moment of absolution for centuries spent in regret.

  Tor’s father could not be brought back from the afterlife, his soul far past into Aaru, the Field of Reeds. Yet he could save the souls of countless others who might fall prey to these predators who were far more ruthless than any werewolf. Here, on this ground, his sins were expunged, and when his heart was weighed against the feather of Ma’at to decide his fate in the afterlife, it would be a little lighter because of this day.

  Tor collapsed forward onto his elbows, willing himself to stay conscious, despite the numerous throbbing lacerations and crossbow bolts protruding from his chest. He was sure a fe
w silver bullets had found a home in his back somehow.

  Yaverik ran off towards the stairs on the other side of the courtyard that led him down into the cellar. Michael came to Tor’s side, his feet wading through the puddles of blood that were now beginning to soak into the earth. The vampire tried to help his comrade stand, but Tor growled and trembled with the effort to rise on his own.

  The pain was too intense, clouding his mind with a thought that plagued him for years. Many times, he wondered how long it would be before he joined his father in Aaru. How many centuries, perhaps millennia, would go by before he could pass on to be with his fellow priests in the land of eternal plenty? As Tor and his wolf struggled to hold onto their combined strength, he knew it would not be long.

  Finally, his muscles giving way to the heavy weight of his massive form, Tor rolled onto his side, his fur inundated with the blood of the fallen. Michael shook him, but the words were muffled and distant. His golden eyes stared vacantly ahead, though all Tor wanted to do was close them and sleep.

  Two more figures emerged, blurred and unfocused as his lids dipped and jaw went slack to emit his shallow breaths. Jane weaved in and out of sight, her cries and pleas sounding shrill in his ears. Her arms looped around his neck and she lifted his head to her face.

  One thing he knew through the haze of coming death, she was crying. Jane sobbed like a woman who had lost every good thing in this world. She cupped his face as if she were holding the last dying embers of life itself. One false move and he would be lost forever.

  Yet as she pressed her face to his, the fronts of their skulls touching, he felt something new. It blasted through the pain and numbing release of death. A coolness touched his muzzle. A drop, not of blood, but of water. Tears poured from her eyes and into his fur. The coolness spread across his skin like a welcome breeze on a hot day.

  It started slow, but then it grew. His wounds began to heal, his flesh pushing out the bullets and arrow tips as if by magic. His senses returned to him, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Not yet.