Rebel: The Blades of the Rose (38 page)

They landed together, Nathan with a grunt, the falcon without a sound. Nathan hefted himself up, shoving the bird's limp carcass to the dirt.

Above, the hawks cried out their tributes. Then circled down to rejoin the fight.

Bracebridge saw the lifeless body of his pet and howled in rage. The mage lunged for him. This time, when the werewolf and Nathan clashed, Nathan knew there would be no more distractions. One of them would die. And soon.

 

Catullus had no experience fighting the undead, but he was quickly learning the process was both arduous and disgusting. The damned creatures didn't know when to stop, no matter how many limbs he hacked off with a borrowed battle-ax. Which left the ground littered with decaying arms and legs and other…things. Things he really had no wish to examine closer.

He stepped in something, dodging a swinging sword, and slipped, going down on one knee. An unidentified substance dampened and stained the knee of his formerly immaculate Saville Row trousers.

“If I make it out of this maelstrom,” he muttered, “I'm burning all these clothes.”

Thank God he had allies. The encampment was filled with what had to be the most unusual battle ever recorded. Everywhere was a surging mass of fur, flesh, and feathers. Wolves, bears, hawks, and humans attacked the zombie warriors, while some grappled with the remaining Heirs.

Catullus turned at the sound of a man's scream. Not one of the Earth Spirits, but Halling. Judging by the pistol in his hand, the Heir had tried to shoot at an advancing wolf. But the wolf gripped Halling's hand in its mouth, drawing blood. His shooting hand incapacitated, there was nothing the Heir could do but weakly hold up an arm to defend himself when a bear lunged at him. Halling's next scream was cut abruptly short. He fell onto his back, and Catullus could only see flailing limbs as wolf and bear savaged their prey. One final twitch of Halling. And then he was dead.

But there was still the matter of Milbourne. The Heir coolly fired into the melee, wounding and felling Earth Spirits as calmly as if shooting tin cans rather than living beings. Catullus went for his own pistol.

And suddenly found himself thrown to the ground.

Swift Cloud Woman straddled him, her face twisted with rage, a jagged knife in her hand. She pinned his arms with her knees and held the knife to Catullus's throat. The edge of the blade bit into his flesh, and he felt a warm trickle down his neck.

“Give them to me,” she hissed. “Give me the totems. Or I will cut your throat, black-skinned interloper.”

“Have…we…met?” Catullus rasped.

Teeth bared, she pressed the knife against him with one hand, while the other scrabbled over him, searching for the totems. Including fumbling over a very private part of his anatomy.

“Awfully…forward,” he said, hoarse.

He rocked one arm free and pushed it between her arm and his neck. He knocked her arm aside, taking the knife from his throat. She kept her hold on the hilt but was sufficiently unbalanced for him to rear up and throw her backward.

Swift Cloud Woman stumbled back, cursing in her native language, then spun when she collided with a large, dark wolf. Both wolf and woman snarled at each other.

“Iron Wolf,” she jeered. She beckoned with her knife. “Now Winter Wolf's spirit will sleep, glutted on your blood.”

The wolf growled, then crouched, readying to spring.

Catullus had a fairly decent idea who might win that encounter, and as he turned away to focus on Milbourne, he heard the woman's outraged screams. Looking back, he saw she lay unmoving in the dirt, the front of her buckskin dress black with blood. The wolf stood over her, its mouth stained red.

That Catullus did not kill Swift Cloud Woman might assuage his mother's conscience, but it wouldn't wipe his memory clean of seeing the Native woman's torn, still body.

Milbourne fired in rapid succession, sending Earth Spirits scattering for cover.

Spotting an opening in the battle, Catullus sprinted for the darkness of the forest. The sounds of struggle masked his movements as he pushed, quietly and quickly, through the brush. He edged around until he was situated behind Milbourne. Some might call Catullus's positioning dishonorable, but honor had little place when fighting for the lives of his friends and the safety of magic. Then he raised his own pistol and pulled the trigger.

The chamber clicked, empty. And so the next, and the next. Swearing silently, Catullus patted down his clothes, but found not a single damned bullet. He snorted at the irony. Famed inventor Catullus Absalom Graves, of the renowned Graves family, caught without enough ammunition.

He holstered his gun but moved forward. Time to take care of this without the advancement of gunpowder.

Milbourne didn't know Catullus was behind him until Catullus's hand chopped down on Milbourne's arm. The Heir's hand spasmed, causing him to drop his gun.

When Catullus spun Milbourne around, the Heir's sangfroid vanished. Face dark with anger, he threw himself at Catullus.

The name he called Catullus wasn't an unfamiliar one, but that didn't make the oath any less ugly. “Colored men have no place in England,” Milbourne sneered. “It's only for the worthy whites.”

“This from a man whose ancestors farmed and ate shit,” replied Catullus.

Milbourne snarled, then attacked with a swift series of blows that made Catullus realize the Heir wasn't only an expert marksman, but a trained pugilist as well.

But so was Catullus. Thrice a week, at “Potato” McLaren's boxing salon—more of an abandoned warehouse than a salon, but no one faulted Potato for his ambition.

The craggy Irishman's lessons were deeply ingrained, as well they should be, after Catullus had frequented the salon for over a decade. So Catullus launched into a series of jabs and hooks at Milbourne that would have made his trainer proud.

Catullus took a hard jab to the chest, temporarily winding him, but he shoved past the pain. When Milbourne came at him again, Catullus caught him in a lock, threw him down to the ground, and jabbed a paralyzing elbow into his solar plexus. The look of shock on the Heir's face was almost worth painting in miniature and wearing as a locket.

“That's not…gentlemanly,” wheezed Milbourne. He sprawled, stunned, in the dirt.

“The benefits of training with a former merchant marine.” Catullus took a length of thin, tough cord from his coat and, in seconds, had Milbourne trussed like a calf. He crouched down to the feebly struggling Heir and gave his face a friendly pat. “I think the local population will truly enjoy treating you to their hospitality.”

Milbourne glanced over to where the Earth Spirits were busy reducing their undead enemy to pulp. Panic flared in Milbourne's eyes, and he tried to twist free. Catullus sighed.

“This should help,” he said, and promptly knocked Milbourne unconscious.

 

Astrid spun away from the undead lurching toward her. They just kept coming. When one reached up to strike with its sword, she slashed, using her knife. The creature's rotted flesh split beneath her blade until her knife rested against bone. Swallowing her revulsion, she trapped its arm between her own in a lock, then twisted. With a wet crunch, the zombie's forearm broke off.

She snatched the creature's hand before it hit the ground, then pried its fingers open and grabbed the sword's grip. She let the forearm and hand fall to the dirt. And swung out with the sword.

It was a heavy weapon, but its weight gave it power. Using both hands, she chopped her way through the zombies that cluttered her path to Staunton, scattering limbs and, in one case, a head.

Staunton watched, smirking, as undead warriors swarmed her. But his smirk faded as she hacked down zombies—little caring that she was spattered with bits of flesh and slivers of bone. And when nothing stood between her and the man who had killed Michael, fear turned Staunton's face chalky. No doubt she looked like a Valkyrie, her battle-crazed eyes, wild hair, and torn and bloody clothes.

They faced each other. The battle raging around them receded. Staunton clutched a knife while Astrid held a sword.

“Mine's bigger,” she panted, smiling brutally.

“You are the most troublesome bitch,” Staunton clipped. He ripped a sword from the hand of a nearby zombie, then waved it in front of him. “It was a pleasure to kill Bramfield, and it will be a pleasure to kill you. And then Graves and your Indian.”

“Please try,” she offered.

He lunged. She blocked his swing with her sword, and they pushed against each other, struggling for dominance. They fell apart, then slammed together again in a torrent of blows and parries. He looked stunned that a woman could wield a broadsword as well as she could. She didn't tell him about the mock Viking battles she used to have with her father. When she saw her father again, she'd be sure to thank him.

If
she saw him again.

Staunton thrust, then pivoted, bringing his sword around too quickly for her to block. She bit back a yelp when the blade caught her across the left arm. Blood ran from the gash and turned her hand sticky.

Seeing her wound, Staunton smiled. “I used to think there was no challenge in killing women.”

“How delightful that I changed your opinion.”

She unleashed a volley of strikes, with Staunton deflecting and striking his own thrusts. Both she and Staunton held their weapons in two-handed grips, putting everything they had into each blow. He had the advantage, being bigger and a hell of a lot less injured. She gritted her teeth against the pain shooting down her arm, and the older wounds left by the falcon on her shoulders and back.

Astrid's gaze strayed to Nathan, needing to see him to help push her forward. The sight chilled her—him, in bear form, locked in a furious struggle against the werewolf. Like her, Nathan had been fighting, and fighting hard, for too long. He'd run untold miles in pursuit of her. While the mage was, if not rested, then certainly less tired. As she watched, the werewolf struck at Nathan with jagged claws, and Nathan growled in pain.

No. Please, no.

She didn't know whether they could prevail, whether she, Nathan, Catullus, and the Earth Spirits could hope to overcome the odds. And that thread of doubt sapped her.

Staunton, seeing her weaken slightly, pushed his advantage. His assault tripled, a fast blur of strikes, and she only able to defend herself, never take the lead.

Winning this fight would take more than strength, more than just raw rage and a desire to hurt. At this pace—exhausted, injured, thwarted—she would be joining Michael much sooner than she ever wanted. And leaving Nathan.

Another blow from Staunton rattled against her sword, sending jolts through her body, and Astrid sank onto one knee. Her head bent, hair curtaining her face, as her shoulders drooped. She let fall her sword arm, as if too heavy for her to support its weight, though she did not relinquish her hold.

Staunton looked down at her, his mouth curling into a vindictive smile. Astrid peered up at him as the breath grated in and out of her lungs.

“The best part about killing Bramfield,” he said, also panting, “was you. Watching you. As he died in your arms. To see his life drain away, and you couldn't stop it.”

She stared at him.

He raised his arm up for the killing blow.

And Astrid sprang forward, thrusting her sword up, into his chest.

She pushed the blade so deep, only a few inches separated her from Staunton.

She looked into his shocked eyes. “Perhaps I'll feel the same way watching you,” she said. Then she stepped back, leaving the sword lodged in place.

Staunton gazed at the sword in his chest, the hilt angled down where Astrid's hands had left it. Astrid studied him, the play of emotion across his face as he realized that death had finally come for him and could not be averted.

As he turned ashen and stumbled to his knees, she said, “I was wrong. I don't feel anything at all.”

He gaped at her, dismayed.

Then he pitched forward and was still.

Astrid waited. But Staunton did not move. Did not draw breath. With the toe of her boot, she turned him over. He stared up with sightless eyes, now a thing, no longer a man. She looked down at him, waiting for a sense of peace, of justice served. But she did not feel exultant. She did not feel relieved or renewed. All she felt was tired. So damned tired.

Animal sounds unlike any other drew her attention. She looked up and, across the seething battle, again saw Nathan in bear form, grappling on the ground with the werewolf. A pitched battle, animal against beast. They each savaged the other. Nathan was wounded, but he fought on, courageous.

That was when her heart soared. Not with the death of her enemy, but with the life of her beloved.

Picking up the sword that had dropped from Staunton's hand, Astrid ran to join Nathan.

 

The hell of it was, Nathan couldn't go to Astrid. He fought against the werewolf, trading bites, claws, all the while intensely aware of her battle with Staunton. Peripheral in Nathan's vision but not his heart. When he saw her fall to one knee, Staunton poised with upraised sword above her, rage and terror unlike anything he'd ever experienced roared through him. He had to help.

But then Bracebridge, with his unnatural strength, caught Nathan about the waist and sent them both tumbling to the ground. Bracebridge gripped his throat with his teeth. Nathan lost sight of Astrid as he struggled for his own life.

As he rolled and grappled, she stayed in his mind. He had to drive onward, to protect her. If he failed in that—

“Nathan!”

Her voice. He glanced up and saw her close by, bloodied but alive. His glance flicked to Staunton's body, sword sticking from it like Excalibur, then back to Astrid. She'd done it. Triumphed, and with her own strength.

The smile she gave him, exhausted but encouraging, gave him what he needed.