Walking The Razor's Edge

by Ileandra Young

  Her plans to escape through them were quickly discarded.

  ‘Who is Saar?’ Shawn spoke so softly she almost missed it.

  Though she had no comforting answer, Lenina couldn’t easily ignore his first words since she entered the room ten minutes before. ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Got anything else to talk about?’

  She gnawed the edge of her thumbnail. ‘Saar was the first god-touched—I mean, vampire. He was born in Ptolemaic Egypt around 59 BC.’

  Shawn’s jaw dropped. Even without an archaeology degree most people could calculate the basic maths. ‘This guy is more than 2,000 years old? Doesn’t that mean he’s really powerful?’ He shrugged when he saw her stunned look. ‘I’ve seen enough movies.’

  ‘Yes. But he died in 1815. Kallisto wants him back.’

  ‘Where do you fit in?’

  She picked at a gold square on the quilt.

  ‘Look, I get that this is a lot of questions, but what do you expect? This morning I was a policeman, now I’m a hostage surrounded by vampires.’ As he spoke the word ‘vampire’ his heart rate spiked. Lenina cut a swift glance at him. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.

 

  She shook her head. ‘Knowing won’t make it better.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But it will stop me imagining what these people are going to do to me.’

  Lenina closed her eyes. She could think of few things worse than sitting on this bed, beside a man who smelled like food, telling him the story of how she became a monster. ‘I don’t know where to start.’

  ‘Keep it simple then. Why do they think you can bring back the dead guy?’

  ‘There was a prophesy. It talked about a god-touched—a Vessel—marked to bring him back.’

  ‘And that’s you?’

  Lenina traced the line of stitches along her left cheek.

  ‘But the mugger did that, it’s nothing to do with—’ Shawn shook his head, chuckling mirthlessly. ‘It wasn’t a mugging, was it? Oh, man . . .’ He rubbed the sides of his mouth. ‘I read that report, it was like a Hollywood script. So, some vampire attacked you and cut your face.’

  ‘I don’t think he did it on purpose.’ Behind her closed lids, Lenina saw Jason’s terrified expression as he recognised the product of his desperate bid to kill her. ‘He didn’t even mean to change me—he was waiting for Nick.’

  ‘Your fiancé? Really?’

  Lenina opened her eyes. ‘He liked men.’

  Shawn shuddered. ‘So he bit you the first night, then came back for your fiancé? That’s sick.’

  Slowly, Lenina uncurled fists she hadn’t been aware of making. Red indents from her fingernails filled in slowly. ‘Yeah. Sick.’

  The door opened. Through it came the Kallisto stand-in, her red hair drawn into a long tail down the back of her neck. She shut the door and swaggered forward, heels leaving little dents in the carpet. ‘Lenina Miller.’ Now she no longer pretended to be Kallisto, her voice was softer, accented with a hint of Leicester and a brush-stroke of Birmingham. She stopped in the middle of the room with one hand on an out-thrust hip, fangs already on show. ‘Nothing fancy now I get a proper look at you. I can smell the fear on you. Like lunch.’

  Shawn paled.

  ‘Oh, and don’t bother calling for the guards. They won’t come unless I call them. We’re having some girl time.’

  Lenina frowned. Instead of the menace and danger she’d come to expect from other god-touched, this woman reminded her of every snotty, superficial bubble-head from her college years.

  A welcome change.

  Stepping forward, Lenina tightened her jaw and reacted just as she had back then. ‘What do you want?’

  The woman arched a brow. ‘Feisty. Interesting. My name’s Zoë.’

  Lenina shrugged.

  ‘Zoë.’

  ‘I heard you the first time.’ Some of the nervous energy began to dissipate. So this woman thought she was tough? She knew nothing of how Lenina once ruled her college classes. This was easy. This, she could handle.

  Zoë pursed her lips. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I take it he hasn’t mentioned me?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’ Hips swaying, Zoë stalked into the room and settled on the end of the bed. She ignored Shawn’s frantic scramble out of the way. ‘I’ve been here a long time—I’m fourth generation. That means my sire—’

  Lenina held up her hand. ‘I know what that means. What’s your point?’ She watched Shawn skirt wide around the bed, positioning himself behind her.

  Probably wise.

  ‘My point,’ Zoë snarled, ‘is that I am powerful. More than a match for you at two days old. I have experience, knowledge and strength you couldn’t possibly dream of.’

  ‘And I’m the Vessel,’ Lenina snapped.

  Silence filled the room.

  Saar gave a soft sigh.

  Shawn shuffled away and Lenina caught sight of the startled look in his eyes. She knew how he felt.

  Saying the words aloud, gave them weight. Truth. Ownership.

  Lenina fingered the healing wound on her cheek and plucked a piece of stitching out of the horrific scabbing. Her skin prickled. A little tingle of warmth passed through her face, billowing down to fill her entire body.

  Calm followed.

  I am the Vessel.

 

  She longed to address the certainty in that smug voice. If anything, owning the truth made her determined to ensure the 2,000 year old monster remained locked up forever.

  With an airy toss of her head Zoë muttered, ‘I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

  Saar spluttered.

  Lenina gaped. ‘Seriously?’

  Carefully, Zoë uncrossed her legs, then re-crossed them in the other direction. ‘It must be more than the sire-childe bond. He had a childe and never once looked at him the way he looks at you.’

 

  Lenina shook her head. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Tristen!’ Zoë bounded off the bed so fast that Shawn yelped and back-peddled. Lenina shifted to keep herself between him and Zoë, an unconscious decision she quickly decided was the right one. Though part of her doubted the other woman even knew he was there.

  ‘He looks at you like food.’ A dreamy look filled Zoë’s eyes. Her voice became wistful. ‘Like something he’d like to unwrap and eat slowly. I saw him with you earlier—in the hallway. The way he touched your face was so . . .’ she sniffed. ‘But he’s mine, understand? You can’t have him and if you try to take him, I’ll make sure you regret it.’

  Lenina remembered Tristen’s sly glance over her shoulder in the hallway outside Kallisto’s study. Though she tried to concentrate on the anger, taking herself back to that moment also strengthened the memory of his touch. His lips against hers. She grunted. ‘I hate him. He’s evil.’

  A subtle shift in the air provided insufficient warning. Zoë leapt, her eyes blanked out to featureless black. Fangs protruded from her rouged lips and her fingernails clawed for soft, delicate eyes. Lenina gave ground, shoving Shawn aside to take the charge herself. It slammed her against a wardrobe which rocked beneath the impact.

  Saar erupted with an answering snarl, flooding her limbs with his strength. He steamrollered her startled attempts to hold him back and snatched hold of her arms, using them to hurl Zoë across the room. It cost him nothing, like tossing a pillow or a book.

  Zoë sailed across the bed and crashed into the headboard face first.

  Saar’s burning rage sent sweat cascading down Lenina’s neck and forehead.

  ‘Stop!’ Lenina thrust out her hands, searching frantically for the pulverised remnants of her mental cage.

  Zoë rolled off the bed. ‘Begging won’t save you. Clearly you need to lea
rn your place.’

  She almost laughed. It seemed impossible that the woman could be that self centred. And yet . . .

 

  ‘And if I do?’

 
  ‘Gross.’ The image made her stomach churn.

 

  The beautiful quilt tore as one of the squares caught on Zoë’s spiked heels. She kicked the shreds of fabric away and puffed hair from her eyes. ‘Tristen is mine.’

  ‘Have him! The man is a manipulative, compulsive liar.’

  Zoë gave another enraged shriek. ‘He is three times the god-touched you’ll ever be, Vessel or not. It’s only because of him you’re here at all. He searched for you, but he doesn’t want you. He wants Saar.’

 

  Lenina agreed but she forced his rage into stillness and pressed the image of a cage around him once more. The effort drove her to her knees. When Shawn crept forward to touch her shoulder, she waved him back. Still not safe.

  ‘Again, Zoë, what do you want?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘So much fuss about you, so much excitement. But you’re nothing. Tomorrow you’ll be gone, the Great Father will be here and Tristen will come back to me knowing his duty is done.’ She laughed. ‘Glorious and appropriate for a pathetic, weak, ugly little tramp like you.’

  Shawn gave a wordless roar and launched across the room. He caught Zoë around the waist, a solid rugby tackle. Momentum took them both to the floor.

  For stunned seconds Lenina couldn’t move. She watched the pair roll across the floor, locked together like animals. Then Shawn screamed. Zoë wrapped her legs around his hips, pinned his arms across his chest. Grinning she unleashed her fangs and put them to Shawn’s throat. He shrieked. Blood swelled.

  Sweet, sweet blood.

  For a single horrifying moment, there was nothing else in the world but the smell of it. Like opening the cases of old coins at the museum. The metallic aroma had a near erotic fruitiness to it, tinged with salt, spiced by fear.

  Shawn’s heart rate rocketed and the blood pumped faster, a vivid splash of colour against Zoë’s lips.

  Between her ears, Saar’s voice soared and his hunger slammed against her senses.

  Lenina closed her hand on a long length of red hair. She didn’t remember moving.

  Pull. Twist. Throw.

  The bed creaked as Zoë landed on it.

  Several strands of hair remained caught around Lenina’s fingers.

  Shawn sprawled on the carpet panting and gasping. His fingers fluttered near his throat. His eyelids drooped.

  With all the care of a new mother, Lenina dropped to her knees and gathered Shawn’s head into her lap. This close, there was nothing but the smell. The air thickened with the taste. Drool pooled beneath her tongue.

 

  ‘But I—’

 

  She considered it. For a single second, drawn out into forever, Lenina imagined stepping back to give Saar control. Wouldn’t that be easier? Simpler? He knew the powers far better than she did and clearly gave no heed to the concept of guilt. Or right and wrong.

  And she wanted it. Longed for it. Needed it.

  The hunger burned through her skin. Almost sexual.

  Her tongue tingled.

 

  Her control slipped. The cage rattled. Bars creaked.

  Saar jabbed through her shields like a spear.

  Fangs sprang forward in her mouth. She lowered her head.

  Something hard and shrieking crashed into her chest. Shawn slipped from her grip. The back of her head cracked off the floor.

  Stars. Bright lights.

  Pain.

  Snarling. Teeth. Spittle. Fingernails.

  Fury.

  Lenina hissed, scrabbling against Zoë’s frantic attempts to reach her throat. She saw swirls of liquid foundation on that pale skin. Little flakes of mascara clumped at the end of each eyelash. A smear in the perfect lipstick.

  She hiked her legs up, protecting her chest with both knees and shoving back on Zoë’s shoulders. One inch. Two. Three.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’

  ‘You’ll try,’ Lenina shot back. Saar’s words.

  Four inches. Five.

  Space shuddered open between them. Lenina thrust with her right knee. Twisted the foot. Shoved.

  Zoë sailed overhead, thudding into Shawn then rolling on. She scrambled to hands and knees. Came again.

  A tiny, long-haired blur streaked across the room. Caught Zoë beneath the chin. Hefted her into the air.

  Blood scattered from her parted lips in a glistening trail.

  When she hit the bed her body pulverised the headboard, reducing it to matchstick fragments. Zoë thudded down beside the bed. Lay unmoving.

  Kallisto straightened and pushed her hair back over her shoulder. ‘You’re causing trouble, Lenina Miller.’

  Still tingling, still bursting with adrenalin, Lenina dropped to a fighting crouch. ‘She started it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Don’t act like you didn’t send her. What are you trying to do?’

  Kallisto gave a graceful, one-shouldered shrug. ‘I did not send her. Indeed, I came to find her when I knew she was missing. Given her fixation on Tristen I deduced there was only one place she would go.’ She smiled. ‘I was correct.’

  ‘She’s insane.’

  ‘She’s powerful . . . and infatuated. Fool. One day she will learn Tristen has space in his heart for but one love.’

  ‘Himself?’

  ‘Saar.’ Kallisto’s inflection lifted. ‘You must know, all he does is in service of the Great Master.’

  The urge to argue boiled strong. Lenina slammed a lid on it.

  Kallisto walked slowly through the room. Her gaze touched Shawn then snapped back to Lenina. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Interesting. Mosi the Usurper is legendary among our people. I’m sure you understand why. For all his attacks on my father, his power cannot be denied. Second only to Saar himself, he was mighty in all things. But Tristen destroyed him—his own sire—and in so doing he paved the way for Saar’s return. We all owe Tristen Blake a great debt.’

  ‘If you’ve just come here to tell me how great he is you’re wasting your time. I know exactly what he is.’

  ‘Perhaps you do.’ Kallisto sat on the bed and beckoned at the open door.

  The three guards walked through, scooped Zoë up between them and carried her away.

  Only when they were gone did Kallisto speak again. ‘Where is Tristen?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Come now, you have his bond. Feel for him. Tell me where he is.’ The promise of danger lingered beneath her words.

  ‘I can’t. I don’t want to be that close to him.’

  Kallisto glanced at Shawn. She didn’t speak, but the expression in her eyes said plenty.

  Lenina reached inside and dragged open the door between herself and Tristen. She braced herself for a rush of lust and longing. Nothing came. She blinked. ‘He’s miles away.’

  ‘Good.’ Kallisto gave a feral smile.

  Chapter Nine

  Shawn groaned. His attempts to sit up ended in weak, ineffectual shuffles against the carpet. His throat continued to bleed.

  Lenina longed to go to him. She had no idea how much blood Zoë took, but his pale face frightened her. ‘Help him,’ she whispered.

  ‘Why?’ No malice, no confusion; Kallisto’s tone was genuine curiosity.

  ‘He’s dying.’

  ‘He’s in pain,’ she corrected. ‘And greatly weakened. If you stop the bleeding he will not die.’

  ‘Then do it!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why? You can’t leave him lik
e that.’

  ‘You are perfectly capable of saving him yourself. If you wish.’

  She abandoned her ready stance for a frantic twisting of her fingers. ‘How?’

  ‘First tell me why? This man is nothing to you. Not family, not friend. Why care?’

  The words tumbled out. ‘I can’t just let him die! It’s . . .’

  ‘Wrong?’ Kallisto sighed. ‘You are no longer human, Lenina Miller. You have risen above. The laws of the world you were born to no longer apply. He is weak and you are strong. You have no obligation to him.’

  ‘I can’t let him die.’

  ‘Then seal the wounds.’

  Lenina held up her hands. ‘I don’t know how—I can’t—just tell me what to do.’

  ‘You know what to do.’

  Frantic, Lenina scrambled through her thoughts, pulling apart Saar’s memories for something useful.

  Killing. Over and over she saw him bite and drink to kill, draining blood while praising Set. Colours, scents, shrieks and sighs flitted across her mind’s eye like an old film reel, flickering, fluttering, juddering.

  At last she stopped, swaying as the rocking motion of a large ship threatened to toss her to her knees.

  The air reeked of salt and fish. And sickness . . .

  ‘I don’t want to die.’ The child lay propped on a pile of filthy sacks. Sweat plastered her hair to her forehead. Heat panned off her glistening skin.

  Saar touched her cheek. Hissed. Rubbed the fingers against his shirt. ‘You will not die, Kallisto. I won’t allow it.’

  ‘It hurts. I want Mother.’

  ‘She is gone, little one. But tonight I make this solemn vow: from this moment forward, I am your true father.’

  The girl felt so tiny in his arms. The touch of her slick, feverish skin against his made something inside curl and recoil, but he held her close. Touched his lips to the inside of her wrist. ‘Do you trust me, little one?’

  Her eyes fluttered. ‘Trust . . . always . . .’

  He bit down.

  The blood against his tongue resembled river scum; slimy, thick and foul. He shuddered and spat the first mouthful against the damp, salt encrusted floor boards of the lower deck. Another. Another.