Blood and Lace: Chapter 26

The Libertine was undisciplined and reflexively cruel, but he wasn’t stupid. The only question was if he would attack immediately. After a moment he took a step back and widened his stance. His expression turned cunning and alert, and his eyes darted between them. “Isn’t this against the rules?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Della asked coolly. “This is a free city now.”

He sneered. “Then it's two on one?”

“Of course not.” Roger’s brow furrowed in distaste. “It is a duel.”

“Metal or bone?” Della asked.

“Do you want to fight with weapons or the natural talents of the blood?” Roger translated. “As the one who is challenged, the choice is yours. I always keep weapons handy for this purpose.”

“Fancy fucks…” The Libertine muttered. He worked his jaw for a moment, then spat the reply. “Weapons!”

Roger stepped over to a wood panel and depressed a hidden catch. The panel swung away to reveal a gleaming assortment of martial arms. Short swords and sabers were racked next to triangular-bladed stilettos, hand axes, and more exotic fare. Della recognized a few as having been in Roger’s collection for centuries, but most were more recent acquisitions. All were sharpened and etched with delicate filigree; these were not the weapons of common soldiers, but true dueling implements.

“The hand axe,” growled the Libertine. Roger removed it from its bracket and walked it over to him. There was one fraught moment where Della braced for him to attack Roger, but even he seemed to realize it would have been a tactical mistake. Instead he swiped the glorified hatchet from Roger’s outstretched hands and glowered at Della.

She glanced at Roger. “I brought my own.” Della unbuttoned her cuff and rolled up her sleeve to reveal the fighting knife strapped to her forearm. She withdrew it with the barest shiver of anticipation. It had to be this blade. Nicholas’s blade.

Roger withdrew to stand in front of the room’s exit. “I shall call for the—”

“No,” Della interrupted crisply, “I will answer.” She lowered her hands to her side, waiting. The Libertine darted a questioning glance at Roger.

“She is offering you the first blow,” Roger explained. “She is…ah…trying to be fair.”

“Fair?” The Libertine’s words were shrill. “This bitch thinks she's a better fighter than me?” He glared at her. “I’m about to chop you into little pieces!”

“You simple boy,” Della answered. “Only your remains leave this room.”

“Do what you do,” Nicholas suddenly whispered in her ear. She could sense the worry behind the words, but his confidence in her—his faith—spoke more loudly. It pleased her, and in that pleasure Della realized she was eager to demonstrate her prowess to him. It was a desire inflamed by that same intoxicating edge she’d been encountering all night. It felt dangerous, something familiar by way of instinct rather than practice…but she had no more time to dwell on it.

Della felt herself relax fully into a fighting mindset. The textured grip of the knife felt good against her palm, and her anger had transformed into a focused desire to vanquish the foe in front of her. Filled with anticipation, she waited.

The Libertine launched himself like a bullet from a gun.

He was faster than Della had anticipated, quickly evaporating her easy confidence. She took a heartbeat to hastily assess new options. He was rearing back to swing the short axe with maximum force, which left his front leg exposed. But that damnable speed! If they traded blows now, she would deliver a deep thigh cut but likely be scored along the arm. An unequal exchange. He’d just fed and could afford the blood loss, but Della had to save every drop.

Mentally cursing, she rolled forward under his swing and came up on the opposite side. They faced each other from the same distance, their positions reversed. He leered at her.

Of course he would be fast! she chastised herself. The fool was already leaning into his instincts like an animal, the first step along the debased path of the feral. But trading your higher brain functions for raw speed was a devil’s bargain. If she kept her wits and temper, superior tactics would prove the victor.

The Libertine surged forward again, swinging his axe in a serious of vertical swipes, some moving so fast that they blurred even to her eyes. She quashed a spark of fear and traded distance for time. Yes…match his rhythm. Della let him catch up and then began angling her torso to dodge each blow as it came. Left…step back…right…step back. It was a feverish rendition of a ballroom dance from a bygone age. However this dance would end with her back to the room’s ornate paneling and her foe’s axe embedded deep into the wood—THUNK—just as she predicted.

My turn to lead.

It only took the Libertine half a heartbeat to remove the axe, but it was enough. She launched a brutal one-two strike, leveraging all her strength. The first hit buried the blade to the hilt in his thigh. Before he could even react, she removed it, and savagely sunk it again, this time into his side. Then she pulled the knife free and dodged around him, leaving his roar of enraged pain behind her.

It had cost blood to move so quickly, and a brief surge of hunger distracted her. Diverted, Della was late to recognize the whistle of steel cutting through air. Turning, she saw the axe leave the Libertine’s hand in a violent throw. It was well-aimed, leaving her only one defensive option. She kicked out her legs and began falling to the floor.

It was a near thing. Close enough to see her own eye reflecting off the polished axe blade as it swing just above her face…but then it was past and she was on her back.

The awkward position would have meant death if not for Della’s previous strikes. The Libertine lumbered towards her, slowed just enough by the blood pouring from his leg and side. He raised one hand and she could see the black talons already manifested from his fingers. In that moment, the endgame became clear, like a chess puzzle with the pieces in place. But, just like chess, she would have to make a sacrifice.

Della dug her heels into the carpet and swung her body to bring her knife-wielding hand closer to her foe. The Libertine bellowed in triumph and aimed a blow at her midsection. She twisted just enough to avoid severe injury, but kept most of her focus on her arm. Agony blossomed, a paradox of hot and cold, as his talons tore into her abdomen. The pain put a black tunnel around her vision, but she willed a small window of sight to remain open, enough to see the vulnerable position of his stance. Her attack was precise and functional, wasting no energy: a deep slice across the back of his thigh, neatly severing his hamstrings.

She rolled away and surged back to her feet, swaying as a stronger wave of hunger pushed against her awareness. She wouldn’t be able to fight for much longer, but she wouldn’t have to. It was over, the Libertine just didn’t know it.

He swayed, and she marked the mild confusion on his face. His leg wouldn’t work right, but the extent of the damage was masked by his rage and preternatural strength. She feinted forward and he took the bait, lunging to meet her. His treacherous limb collapsed beneath him.

Della didn’t give him time to dwell on it. His throat was perfectly exposed as he fell towards her, and she laid it open with a decisive slash, pouring his life blood onto the carpet. It was merciful, as such things went.

The Libertine collapsed face down and she wasted no time plunging the blade into his back, piercing his heart and ending all resistance. She straightened, breathing heavily, and looked at Roger.

“One stands…where two have stood,” she said.

He nodded gravely. Without a word, he pulled a massive flamberge from the rack on the wall. The monstrously long sword had been forged to be particularly heavy, and she knew the reason why. Roger raised it as high as the ceiling would allow, and brought it down, neatly severing the head of the Libertine.

“The blood has been concentrated.” He paused for a decorous moment, and then set the sword aside along with his solemnity. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my dear, I must check on my servant.” Della nodded.

There was a surprised breath in her ear. “Wait…it’s over? It’s only been five seconds!” There was a pause as the implication sunk in. “Fuck…you really are amazing.” A part of her was still irritated that Nicholas’s admiration gave her such pleasure, but a greater part had simply begun to accept it. “You’ll tell me about it later, right?” he asked.

“I will,” she answered quietly, then looked up as Roger approached. He had his arm around Stephanie and was quietly comforting her. Despite his obvious effort to shield her from the wreckage of the meeting space, she peeked her head up and looked at Della, eyes going wide at the bloody mess of her shirt.

“Thank you,” she stammered. Della gave her a simple nod. Stephanie managed an uncertain smile before ducking her head back below Roger’s shoulder.

“Matthew’s already closed the shop,” Roger murmured to the girl, “so just wait up front and I’ll see you home personally.” He eased the door shut behind her, then turned to face Della.

“Are you well? Do you require blood?”

Della pursed her lips. “If you have a bag handy…”

“A bag?” He tutted. “Come now, this is a civilized establishment.” Della lifted an eyebrow. “What? Even this combat was conducted with utter propriety,” he added archly. “Besides, Matthew, my other blood servant, would be happy to—”

She cut him off with a shake of her head. The idea of feeding from Matthew appealed to her appetite, but it also felt oddly…inappropriate. I’m waiting for Nicholas, she realized. Weakness. Pure sentimentality. Perhaps it was…but she still didn’t want to accept Roger’s generous offer.

Aloud, she said, “I am honored, truly. But I must take my leave at once.”

Roger sighed, and stepped over to another hidden cabinet, unlocking it with a practiced flourish. It opened with a faint hiss of pressure. Row upon row of blood bags were secured in a refrigerated space. Tendrils of mist curled out as he reached in and collected two bags. With a well-practiced motion he deposited them into a slim insulated envelope and handed them over. “Two. To go.” His tone was dry.

“I thank you.”

“I will also deal with the remains of your opponent.” He folded his arms, frowning. “It was an outstanding display, Della. You haven’t lost a step.”

“You are very kind, Uncle.”

Roger gave her an odd look. His mouth quirked up in a way that was both bemused and pleased. “I don’t believe you’ve called me that in more than a century.”

Della could only shrug in response. Roger wasn’t related by blood—the familial kind, anyway—but that had been his honorary designation in her earliest decades, from the first time her father had introduced him to her. She honestly didn’t know where the urge to use it came from. 

That’s not true, her inner voice countered. You’ve had your head in thoughts of sunlit days and other, equally deadly, notions of late.

Yes…that was so, even if she didn't want to admit it. Her youth had once felt inconceivably distant, but recently she had started to recall it. Glimpses, even feelings, from a time when possibility and novelty seemed to beckon from all sides. In her present state, with most of her emotions subdued, dwelling on it created an almost alien sensation. She shook her head to clear it.

“The Libertine,” she said, “mentioned a new golden age.”

Roger frowned. “Yes. It makes no sense. A kingdom where our kind could roam free, in the open? It’s lunacy. The original Anointed Kingdom only lasted thirty years before being annihilated.”

“And that was the Dark Ages.”

He nodded, letting a flash of worry break through his aristocratic facade. “What could Lord Layne be thinking?”

“He’s not thinking at all. Drus is behind this, not Layne. There’s something you should know. Lord Layne…” She licked her lips. 

“What is it?” His eyes glittered, eager for information, and she decided to trust him with it, trust that he would believe her.

“Lord Layne is already half feral. His mind is…” She shook her head.

“Gods. Are you absolutely certain?” He brought his hand up to his forehead and trailed fingers along his brow.

 “I saw him with my own eyes, Roger. Drus has been delivering humans for him to kill, as many as he wants. It was…” Images and sensations, sounds and smells, flashed through her mind. The tiniest shudder rolled through her frame. “…vile. It’s Drus who tore up the edicts and brought the Libertines here.”

“But why?” Roger asked, his tone shot through with dark musings. Perhaps he’d guessed the same motive Della had. She opened her mouth to answer.

A loud curse from Nicholas stopped her cold. “Della, one of the lost boys just made me. Gotta bail. Might still get away—” The link cut out with a crackle of static.