Defiance (31 page)

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Authors: Lili St Crow

BOOK: Defiance
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I tried to rip myself away. Her fingers closed on my nape, iron-hard. “God
damn
you,” she whispered. “Drink. Drink so you can save them.”
I wasn’t listening. It was like someone holding a kitten’s nose in a dish of milk. A hungry kitten.
No. Not hungry.
A
thirsty
kitten.
My fangs slid into her skin so easily, and a gush of hot perfume filled my mouth. Anna was saying something, whispering in some foreign language, and the touch turned it into words inside my head.
“Hate you,” she was saying. “
Hate
you, Reynard, and you deserve it.”
It made me sick. She even
tasted
bad. You know how you think perfume is going to taste good because it smells so good? But it doesn’t; it tastes like alcohol and acrylic.
Don’t tell me you haven’t tried it.
The worst part of it was the touch, lighting up the inside of my head like the Fourth of July. Whispering, hinting,
showing
me things.
 
Anna watching as Christophe crouched easily, all his attention on the street below. Her heart hurt, a sweet sharp pain, and she studied his perfect profile again. He wasn’t paying attention, which meant she could look all she wanted. “Why are we up here again?”
She just wanted to hear him talk. But he gave her an irritated glance, the rest of his face set and only his eyes sparking. “Pay attention,
svetocha
.” And the sting as the barbs behind the words hit home—she folded her arms, swallowing the sudden pressure in her throat.
 
She smoothed the skirt. It was exactly the right red, complementing her skin, and she’d learned the patience necessary to do up all the tiny buttons. Just see him ignore her in this—she made certain her eyeliner was perfect, and admired the heavy ruby drops in her ears. They sparkled just like she did.
But when she reached the Council chamber, there was a surprise.
The other
svetocha
sat sobbing in Bruce’s chair, and Christophe knelt by her side, looking up into her face. The rest of the Council gathered around, identical worry on every face. The other girl was nothing special, a curly-headed mouse in torn blue jeans and a white shirt that seriously needed laundering. She stank of
nosferat
and fear, and flinched when Christophe moved to touch her shoulder.
Anna stood in the doorway, her jaw suspiciously loose. He had never tried to touch
her
that way.
“They just . . . kept screaming,” the girl said dully, and Christophe leaned forward to catch her words.
“All’s well,
ksiezniczko
.” And Reynard was murmuring, not the curt monosyllables he affected with
her,
oh, no. He was trying to be soothing.
Soothing. To this sobbing little bitch, whoever she was.
 
Anna hunched in her bed, shoulders shaking. The racking would not stop; her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, tears slicking her fevered cheeks. She rocked back and forth, but quietly, so the
djamphir
on guard at the door wouldn’t hear.
She would
die
before she let them hear. Christophe’s words, clear and hateful, tolled in her head like church bells.
You, Anna? I could never love
you
. You love yourself far too much to need my help.
It isn’t true
, she keened to herself, rocking, rocking.
It isn’t true! I need, I NEED you . . .
But he was gone, and she was crying, and there was no comfort in the silken bed or the clothes on their hangers or the expensive perfumes and lotions racked on her vanity. Even the admiring, jealous eyes of the other Kouroi were not enough.
There was a hole in her, and it twisted . . .
 
The next mouthful hit the back of my throat and went down in a long, rasping gulp. Her fingers slipped out of my hair, and I tore myself away. Scrabbled back, crab-walking on my palms and sneaker heels, the
malaika
tangling inside their sheaths and scraping the concrete floor.
The
malaika
hilts hit the wall. I gasped, scrubbing at my mouth with the back of my hand, and Anna’s eyes were half-closed. Her head lolled on the slender stem of her white neck.
I’d bitten right where Sergej had. Every inch of skin on me crawled with loathing. My stomach cramped hard, closing up like a fist. I understood a lot more about Anna now than I ever wanted to.
“Milady?” The twin holding her felt for a pulse. “She’s . . . she’s alive. Barely.”
Oh, thank God. Thank you, God.
New strength surged through me. The aspect came back, smoothing away all the aching and spreading blonde through my hair like a fast-forward at a pricey salon. Bloodhunger scraped at the back of my throat, the walls between me here and now and the past suddenly paper-thin. The touch threatened to spill me into a whirlpool of Anna’s memories, time fracturing and splintering as the hall outside turned a dark wine red, filling up with danger.
“Shit.” Kip chambered a round.
“Incoming!”
I
heard
them, tasted the hate flying like clouds of bees around them. The lights were too bright, but closing my eyes didn’t help because the touch showed me everything anyway, as if the walls were clear and I was a glass girl full of red liquid—an unholy mixture of perfumed blood and pure, deadly rage.
Christophe’s blood wasn’t like this,
I thought, and another iron cramp of nausea hit me. There wasn’t time, though, because Kip was already out in the hall, firing and screaming like he intended to make this his last stand.
It just might be,
Anna’s blood whispered in my veins.
There’s too many of them, and he’s wounded.
Training rose up, lattices of information and reaction snapping together inside my head. There was so
much
—I’d barely scratched the surface with Christophe.
Thinking about him was like lighting a match in the room full of explosive gas my skull had become. I rocketed to my feet, tearing the
malaika
free of their sheaths. Another explosion, this one so close it rocked the entire hall, and I sucked in an endless breath.
“Get out of here!”
I yelled, and piled out the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
 
Even if Anna
hadn’t been keeping up with her training, she’d still
had
it. And somehow, it was that training burning in my head, jerking my body around like a puppet, faster and sharper than I ever thought I could move. I shoved past Kip, who flew sideways and hit the wall; there was no time to feel bad about it because the vampires were coming. Smoke filled the hall, and for a moment I was back in the reform Schola as it burned all around me, hearing someone scream my name and watching the paint bubble up on the benches in the tiny little dead-winter garden.
The past touched the present, doubled over like the Möbius strip everyone makes in fourth grade, and Anna’s high tinkling little laugh burst out of my mouth as I hit the first sucker with a crunch. He started choking as my right-hand
malaika
flickered, a gush of thin black acid spraying as I finished the slash and threw myself forward again, a whirling dervish behind the
malaika
blades. The swords were
singing
, a low sweet sound as they cut the silken, smoke-laden air, and that laughter coming from me took on an edge as the vampires fell.
Foot forward, knee precisely placed, swing of hip up as the wooden blades became living things. They danced with me, attack and defense shared in concentric rings of reaction. I blurred as if I was doing my
t’ai chi
on fast-forward, laughing like crazy because it felt so good.
Instead of being terrified, I was
fighting back
. It felt goddamn wonderful.
More gunfire, but I didn’t worry about it. What I worried about was the knot of five
nosferat
in front of me, all male, Anna’s training ringing inside my head recognizing a standard attack pattern in confined spaces. Two blond, two dark-haired, all black-eyed with the hunting aura and brimful of raging hate; the first two crouched and sprang as a second pair gained altitude, leaping and hanging in the air as the muscle inside my head flexed.
It was so
easy
now.
I skipped back two paces, wanting the extra room to build up speed. Behind me, screams slowed down to distorted mumbles; particles of smoke hung in the air, tiny crystalline flakes. Sneakers digging in, vaguely aware of my breath coming tearing-hard, the lump of heat in my stomach glowing red, I realized what I was about to do and almost,
almost
paused.
But you can’t stop in the middle of a fight. You move, and you’re either standing at the end of it, or on the dirt. If you’re
on
the dirt you might as well be
under
it. That’s why fights don’t have rules.
My feet slapped, I lunged and left the ground. Gran’s owl called softly through the slowed-down mishmash of confusion around me. For a few brief seconds I knew what it was to have hollow bones and feathers, to fly on silent wings, wind slipping past your ears with a low sweet sound like riding a bike down a long hill. Twisting, one foot flashing out to crack against the skull of the first sucker. Another half twist,
malaika
sweeping up as my wrist flexed, and it went through the second sucker’s neck with a
tchuk
like Gran thopping her ax through a bit of dry-seasoned cordwood. An arterial spray of rotting acid described a perfect curve, but I was already up and over, my left foot kissing the wall to push me sideways again, shoulder dipping and my other
malaika
whistling until it carved through the third sucker’s face at full extension. The third sucker went slack, body tumbling, and my right foot touched his back, neat as could be, as I pivoted and brought both blades across
en parallel
. They both bit deep on the fourth
nosferat
as he was in midair, one almost severing his hand and the other tearing out his throat with a flick of the wrist.
I wasn’t done yet. Landing, the body under me absorbing rib-snapping shock, knees loose, my left-hand
malaika
stabbing down through his back. Another meaty thud, had to pull back at the last second so as not to splinter the blade or break the point. A blurted sound behind me, but I was already whirling, and the first sucker—the one I’d just kicked in the head—ran onto my blade at full tilt. He started choking, too, his face congesting and runneling with dark ash as hair-fine cracks ate through his skin.
Hawthorn poisons them fast. So does a
svetocha
once she’s bloomed. Or maybe it was Anna’s ability added to mine, a calculus of toxicity?
But maybe she wasn’t very toxic to suckers, just to other
svetocha
.
My mouth filled with bitterness. The
malaika
jerked free, my hand twisting it precisely to break the suction of muscle against the blade. It gave with a wet splorching sound under the all the noise around us, and I winced.
I looked up, and there was Graves, his irises gone black for a moment before sparks of green struggled in their depths.
Behind him, the twins held Anna, who didn’t even look alive. She just . . . hung there. I could still hear her pulse, thudding sluggishly and pausing like a train heaving uphill. Blaine’s jaw had dropped. Kip leaned against the wall, clutching at his bloody shoulder, his jaw set and his dark eyes alight as he stared at me.
I hate being stared at.
I realized what I’d just done.
That wasn’t the worst, though. The worst was seeing Graves’s mouth pulled down like he was disgusted. He was looking at me like I was a new sort of bug that had skittered out from under a rock.
One he wasn’t sure was poisonous or not. Except I
was
. To suckers, at least. I was a murderous thing. A killer with fangs.
Like something Dad would have hunted.
I’m still me,
I wanted to yell. Smoke poured down the hall from the direction we’d come, and I could hear shouts and screams—the glassy cries of
nosferat
, drilling against the brain; wulfen howls high and chill and silver; and
djamphir
battle cries. There was one hell of a pitched action going on down there, but they were working this way.
Graves opened his mouth to say something, but I saw everything right there in his pain-darkened gaze. He
was
disgusted. He’d seen me suck Anna’s blood, and seen me do . . .
. . . this. The sucker bodies were rotting fast, and the smell was massive. Nausea hit me like a dodgeball in the stomach; I clamped my lips together and felt my fangs scraping lightly.
A
svetocha
’s fangs are relatively dainty, yeah. But they’re meant for the same thing a sucker’s are, and I’d just used them.

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