Night's Reckoning

by Elizabeth Hunter

  Blood poured down his chest.

  “Tell me who sent you,” she said. “And I will make your death swift.”

  He shook his head. “None of this makes sense.”

  “You were very foolish to try to use a gun on me. So that is not an illogical sentence.”

  Tenzin brought her blade up again, and this time she removed his head in one sweeping stroke. The body fell, and Tenzin didn’t wait. She knelt down, cleaned her blade on the man’s jacket, and rose again.

  Scanning the room, she noticed another staircase in the corner. Moving silently, she spiraled down from the upper deck, not even touching the rails, only to be met by two more bullets that missed their mark.

  She made herself small and looked for where the shots had originated, swiftly gathering air in her hands. Her amnis was still rich with the typhoon’s power. She was in a kind of hallway. It was carpeted in red, and doors branched off on either side, six doors in all, with a reading nook at the far end.

  Tenzin stayed completely motionless, crouched under the stairs and watching the room.

  “I can smell you, Saba’s daughter.”

  She saw movement from the corner of her eye. A fraction of a second later, Tenzin flung a torrent of wind in that direction. The wind knocked paintings off the walls, vases off shelves, and pinned Johari to the wall behind the bookcase where she’d been hiding.

  The vampire struggled to break Tenzin’s hold, but Tenzin only pushed on her amnis harder, doing her best to break Johari’s ribs. Doing her best to hurt the vampire who had ruined everything. Tenzin heard a quiet snap, and Johari shrieked in pain.

  Satisfaction flooded her body.

  Tenzin smiled. “Hello, Johari. Where is my father’s sword?”

  “I don’t understand this!” The vampire struggled to speak. “We only… we did as you asked!”

  33

  Tenzin was so shocked that she loosened the wall of wind holding Johari to the wall. “What was that?”

  “I was doing… what you asked!” She struggled against the wind and managed to work herself back down to the ground.

  Tenzin walked over, shoved the bookcase across the room, and put her hand around Johari’s throat. “Who told you that?”

  “Saba.” Johari choked out the words. “She told us… you didn’t want him dead. Just wounded so he would have to turn. She said… said it was what you wanted.”

  Tenzin had heard the phrase “stone-cold bitch,” but she didn’t think it had ever described anyone as well as Saba. She loosened her grip on Johari’s throat. “What else did she tell you?”

  “You wanted the sword gone.” Johari rubbed her throat. “But you needed cover for your sire. She said you didn’t want peace between Arosh and Zhang any more than she did.”

  “She told you I said those things?”

  Johari looked confused. “She said… it was what you wanted.”

  A fine distinction Tenzin would have to examine later. “Where is my father’s sword?”

  Johari didn’t say anything, but her eyes went to the right and Tenzin followed. She kept one eye on Johari as she walked to a chest that was acting as a coffee table for the cozy sofa. If looked like the kind of thing Chloe would have bought for the loft and filled with soft blankets and maybe a pair of slippers.

  Tenzin flipped open the chest and saw the pockmarked red glass still flecked with sand and mud. She lifted it and carried it to the upended bookcase. She tried to open the case, but it was stuck shut, the seam too packed with dirt and debris.

  Johari shook her head. “We tried, but we couldn’t—”

  Tenzin still held the bronze blade in her hand. In one hard crack, she brought the hilt of her sword down onto the glass case, cracking it in the middle.

  Johari’s eyes went wide. “What—?”

  “The point”—Tenzin smashed it again—“is the sword.” The case broke into several large pieces and a hundred tiny ones. One shard flew up and struck the side of Tenzin’s jaw. Another flew into Johari’s face, leaving a red gash across her cheek.

  Tenzin wiped the glass away with a swipe of wind, and a torrent of tiny blades flew up and struck Johari across her torso. Blood wept through her clothes, and Johari flinched but didn’t move.

  The Laylat al Hisab, last great work of the swordsmith, Harun al Ilāh, was cradled in a bed of cracked leather, nearly as perfect as the day it had been finished.

  Tenzin lifted it in her hand, the gold hilt set with rubies for the Fire King and sapphires for Zhang. A whirling firebird was etched on one side of the blade and a coiled dragon on the other. The finish was dull but the edge was unmarred by corrosion. With even a little care, the blade would shine again.

  The sword’s deadly beauty caused an aching deep in Tenzin’s chest. Though the decorations on the hilt were rich, the Laylat al Hisab was no ceremonial blade. The balance and weight were perfectly calibrated to a warrior of her father’s elemental ability and strength. It was, in all ways, perfect. And perfectly deadly.

  Tenzin looked at Johari, the thief who had stolen everything. Blood and tears streamed down the vampire’s face. She was standing against the wall, eyes locked on Tenzin, though nothing but her own fear held her.

  “You didn’t ask Saba for help?” Johari asked.

  Tenzin raised the sword, leaving her bronze blade among the shattered glass, and tested it against her thumb. The steel edge was lethal, and blood welled in a fine, straight line.

  “Why would I ever ask Saba for help?” Her eyes cut to Johari. “You have seen what conditions come with Saba’s help.”

  Johari was wrecked. “My sire sent others first. She hoped to avoid my involvement. She wanted Benjamin Vecchio gone from the beginning so neither of you would be on the ship. There were supposed to be men in Shanghai who injured him.”

  The two vampires who went after Ben near her house. It felt like so long ago, Tenzin had nearly forgotten.

  “But he fought them off,” Tenzin said. “He was too smart for them.”

  “I don’t know what happened, but she sent me a message. Injure the young man—do not kill him, no matter what—and take the sword. When he found it…”

  “You could fulfill both tasks at once.” She thought about another broken body. “And the human, Meili?”

  Johari shook her head. “I panicked. She’d found the glass, and I was terrified the humans would bring up the sword during the day. I had to get it from the ocean before anyone saw it. I couldn’t let others know it had been found. As long as it was never found—”

  “You could avoid any suspicion. It would just be one more mysterious artifact, lost to the sea. And we would never know Saba had taken it.”

  Johari nodded. “The human was unfortunate.”

  Tenzin felt the wind whipping around her. The boat rocked to the side, the storm drawn by her fury. “And what about Ben?”

  “He is alive, isn’t he?” Johari looked confused. “He was to be changed. She said he would be changed.”

  “He is changed,” Tenzin said quietly. “But not by me. Zhang has a new child now, one far more powerful than any of Saba’s countless progeny.”

  Johari looked pale but resolute. “Nevertheless, I am glad he is alive.”

  Tenzin held out the sword and walked toward Johari, pointing it at her throat. The blade shone dull in the flickering lights of the hallway while waves rocked the yacht back and forth. Tenzin floated above the floor, steadied by the air around her.

  In her mind, she saw the sword piercing Ben’s back, the pain and torment as she flew him to her father. The pointed cobblestones against her knees as she begged. The taste of his blood and the ecstasy of his bite. The cold hatred on his face.

  “You escaped your fate once.” She put the blade to Johari’s throat. “Tell me why I should let you escape again.”

  Johari’s face was bleak. “You shouldn’t.”

  The whispers came like a swirling typhoon, building and building in her mind.

  Kill her!
She is nothing.

  She wants to die.

  Her eyes beg for it.

  He hates you because of her.

  “I will find the sword, Father. I will kill Saba’s daughter.”

  “Is that what you think I want?”

  Her father’s words came to her, louder than the whispers.

  “Is that what you think I want?”

  What did he want? What did Ben want now? What did Tenzin want? Did she even know anymore?

  “My daughter, if you resist change, you will never be who you were meant to become.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the curving bronze sword she had carried for thousands of years. The blade was stained with the blood of enemy and lover, friend and family, murderers, rapists, defilers of the weak. Those who were weak. Those who were strong.

  Tenzin looked from the bronze blade, back to Johari.

  Kill her.

  She is nothing.

  Thief, they whispered. Liar and thief.

  “So am I,” Tenzin murmured. “All that and more.”

  Her feet dropped to the soft red carpet, and she loosened the backpack she carried, still holding the sword on Johari. She withdrew a book in a clear plastic bag. “You know what this is.”

  Johari’s face froze.

  “I found your book. And the picture of your Zuberi.”

  “Please.” Her breathing came faster. “He has nothing to do with this.”

  “Why do you keep his picture?”

  “Because I love him.” She blinked hard and held out her hands. “I have only ever loved him. But I was a fool. Please. Give it to me. If you kill me now, at least let me hold his picture when I die.”

  “I’m not giving you the book.” Tenzin slipped it back in her backpack and stood straight, leveling the blade on Johari’s neck. “But I will not hurt this man. This vampire who helps women the powerful have forgotten.”

  “Thank you.” Her face fell in relief. “Zuberi—”

  “I am going to find this kind doctor you love,” Tenzin said softly. “And I’m going to tell him about Ben. And about Meili. About everything you have become.”

  Johari’s chest heaved. “You would be more merciful to kill me.”

  Tenzin cocked her head. Looked at Johari. Looked at the sword in her hand. “It was only ever a symbol.”

  She rose again as waves crashed against the cabin, throwing everything in the hallway off-balance. Paintings crashed and glass broke. The smell of seawater was everywhere.

  Johari held out her arms to steady herself. “The sword?”

  “It was only ever a symbol. It was death captured in a beautiful vessel. Your sire and Arosh, they never understood. Zhang Guo never needed a sword, because he has me.” Tenzin reached for Johari’s hand, gripping her fingers and stretching her arm forward. “I am the Night’s Reckoning.”

  Tenzin lifted the blade and swung down, severing Johari’s hand at the wrist. She screamed in pain and crumpled to the floor, blood pouring from the empty stump on the end of her arm.

  She tossed Johari’s hand in her backpack and slung the bag over her shoulder. “There is my mercy, Saba’s daughter. Your hand will grow back eventually, but your mother will know what it means. Tell her I know. Tell her I know everything.”

  Tenzin bent and retrieved her bronze blade, keeping both swords in her hands as she floated up the stairway, past the bloody dining cabin, and onto the bridge. She needed to leave the ship, which was beginning to list dangerously as the storm grew stronger.

  The two humans on the bridge were desperately trying to keep the ship steady, but Tenzin knew it was futile. They turned with wide, terrified eyes when she stepped onto the bridge.

  “You should go,” Tenzin said. “Get the rest of the crew and take shelter in the lifeboats.” She looked down the stairs as the men stared at her. “There’s no one left to protect.”

  She pushed open the door with a gust of wind and walked into the storm. Once she was far enough away from the bay and hovering over the storm, Tenzin threw Johari’s hand into the sea.

  She flew a little farther and a little higher, her heart racing as she clutched the Laylat al Hisab in her right hand. She was heading north, back to her father. Back to Benjamin. If she was lucky, she’d make Cheng’s ship by nightfall.

  Somewhere past the storm, along the north end of the South China Sea, Tenzin held out her left hand and let the bronze blade slip from her fingers.

  34

  Tenzin lay motionless on the couch in Cheng’s cabin, staring at the sword. Cheng had put it in a beautiful leather box lined in silk. Because it had never been exposed to saltwater, it didn’t need to be desalinated. With only a little polish, Cheng had returned it to its original glory.

  “Your father will be pleased.” Cheng placed another blanket around Tenzin’s shoulders, but she still felt cold.

  He sat next to her on the couch and draped her legs over his knees.

  “Look at it, Cricket. Focus on what we have accomplished—what you accomplished—finding the sword. Be proud of that right now.”

  Counting all the treasure found in Harun’s clever glass boxes, Tenzin would be returning to Penglai Island with one sword, a pair of jeweled throwing daggers, five gold necklaces of intricate beauty made in the Sassanian style and set with polished jewels, a richly decorated headband with braided silver and gold, eight gold goblets decorated to honor the Eight Immortals, and various pieces of precious metal and polished stones.

  The treasure of ninth-century Arabic glass that had been recovered would need to be treated at the university laboratory and would likely go into a museum collection of some kind, along with all the research and video footage obtained from the wreck, but the treasure in Harun’s boxes was for Zhang and his fellow elders alone.

  Tenzin stared at the sword and the treasure, searching for the satisfaction she would have felt if Benjamin had been beside her. They would have opened champagne and played music. He would have made her dance, and he would have sung when he became drunk.

  If they were in New York, he would have stumbled out the door with Chloe at midnight, forcing Gavin and Tenzin with them as they went to search for their favorite late-night street food. They would have eaten waffles with chocolate or french fries or shawarma from the vendor near the park.

  “Tenzin.” Cheng shook her shoulder. “Stop.”

  “Do you know his story?” Tenzin asked Cheng. “Do you know Harun’s story?”

  “Not really.”

  “Harun al Ilāh was a master of fire,” she began. “Steel, glass, or gold, he could work with them all. He created crowns for ancient kings and mastered every style of weapon. It is said that the genius of Damascus steel began with him. That he was the first to order his steel from India, and he searched the whole continent to find the finest and most flexible metal to forge his weapons.”

  “And he shared that technology with the humans?”

  “Eventually, yes. But he was the first. He created weapons so strong they could win any duel. In the hands of wind vampires, they could lay waste to armies. He designed blades specifically for our kind.”

  “Was he from a wind clan?”

  “No one knows who his sire was or where he came from. He was very old, very powerful, and had no enemies, because who would make an enemy of the man who could forge the finest blades?”

  Cheng chuckled.

  “But he wasn’t kind. He was unmerciful to his human assistants. He could be a brutal craftsman and was known to kill those who didn’t work to his exacting standards.”

  “And humans still came to him?”

  “Oh yes.” Tenzin sat up and rubbed her temple. “They came and they learned his secrets when they pleased him. He did beautiful things. Impossible things like these boxes.”

  “He sealed them somehow,” Cheng said. “I still can’t figure out how not a single one leaked, despite how long they were in the water.”

  “He was a magician,” Tenzin continued. “Fire, g
lass, and metal were his obsession. He lived in the mountains alone, and he had no mate, no sire, no family at all. Only a few human apprentices and a woman from the nearest village who cooked and cleaned for him.”

  Cheng asked, “What happened to him? Something happened, because he is no longer living. Everyone knows Harun is dead. Unless it is a myth like Arosh’s death.”

  “No, I am quite certain he is dead.” Tenzin remembered the long night with the old man in a caravanserai near Samarkand. She remembered fire and tea and dates stuffed with walnuts. The human who told her the tale was an old Sogdian trader. He had a dagger and Tenzin wanted it. “I wanted to buy a piece in a man’s possession—a double-edged dagger with a jade hilt—but the gold I offered was insufficient to convince him to sell.”

  “How much gold?”

  “You don’t want to know. The money meant nothing. I wanted one of Harun’s blades. The old man forced me to pay him with an exchange of stories. Well, the gold and the stories. I would tell one of mine and then listen to one of his. And the story he told me was the tale of Harun al Ilāh.”

  “And you believed him?”

  Tenzin said, “There are stories to tell a history and those to tell a story. This was a history, and I believe every word.”

  Cheng brushed a hand over her hair. “So what happened to Harun al Ilāh?”

  “The old woman who cleaned and cooked for him died after many years, but as was the tradition of her family, her granddaughter came and learned Harun’s secrets so she could carry on keeping house for the immortal.

  “The granddaughter came and learned all her grandmother taught her. Learned how to cook Harun’s favorite meals and tend the fires in the house to please him. How to make his tea and keep the home cool. She knew that, like Harun’s apprentices, she would have to offer her blood once every month, but she would be rewarded for her devotion and secrecy.

  “So the woman came to work for Harun, giving up her plans to marry a boy from her village and hoping only that, like her grandmother, one of Harun’s apprentices might consider her a good wife. Her name was Layah. She was plain-faced but had hair so beautiful she wore it covered so no one could see and remark on it, because she was a quiet woman who didn’t care for attention.”