“Also, your second or your primo or your Enforcer may fight for you, and your primo is in great need of exercise,” a bored voice said. “He also has the ambition, and some say the skill, to best Grégoire as the finest swordsman in the Americas.” Edmund stepped from behind a roof support. “This,” he said with a delighted grin, “will be an epic battle.”
I managed a grin too, and then concentrated on surviving. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, I decided I wasn’t going to die. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not at this Sangre Duello at all. I had to stay alive. For my friends.
* * *
• • •
I was sitting on the sand as the sun rose, watching clouds roll in, dark and angry and filling up the horizon from the distant water to the vault of the sky. The waves had changed from soft and lapping to a high surf that sprayed me with salt and wet down my clothes and my braid. I was alone, resting, after studying the fight list, looking for weaknesses in the opponents and their fighting styles. It was what Beast called tracking, hunting prey, following spoor, finding tall limb over water. Ambush!
“It’s Fight Club,” I’d said to them all, “but with swords and knives. And we can cheat. Got it.” Except that, even with discussing the fighting weaknesses of Titus’s strongest vamps, I felt a creeping panic beneath my skin. I knew that people I loved were gonna die. People fighting challenges that were intended for me. And if Leo lost the final battle with Titus, and if I didn’t win my own fights, the witches in the United States would take on the EVs. They might win, but they’d more likely be killed in a massive paranormal genocide. My godchildren would die. At some point the military would take on the vamps, but likely not in time to keep the vamps from coming ashore. I had tried not to think about this. Tried not to emote about this. But the Sangre Duello was dire. This was the final battle against the EVs. The biggest, baddest uglies on the face of the earth, landing to kill us.
So I’d stomped off, to sit on the sand and stare at the dawn storm rolling in. In twelve hours the vamps would be here. Leo and his people first. Then Titus. And whatever vamps would try to kill us all.
Maybe at first my Enforcer, Gee DiMercy, or my primo, Edmund Hartley, would take my matches and defeat my enemies. And like the coward I am, I’d let them. And maybe they would win for a match or two or seven. But eventually, at some match with an older, better fighter, they would lose. One, or the other, or both, would be maimed or die. Because I let them fight for me. Eli had tried to explain rank to me. Had tried to tell me I wasn’t a grunt anymore, not frontline troops. The pep talk hadn’t helped.
Because after the best of the sword fighters were down, Eli would try to fight for me. He was looking forward to it, to facing battle again. So I’d disable him to keep him back. And then, while he cursed me for taking him out, I’d fight. And because we had worked our way up the lists, this would be the best fighter of them all.
Beast is best hunter. Beast is best ambush hunter.
I stared at the coming storm as the sky went darker instead of lighter with the dawn. Rain splattered on me and dimpled the sand. And Beast sent me a vision of tall branches and soaring rock faces, wet with rain, trees lashed by wind.
Beast whispered inside me, Half-form teeth and fangs and claws. And Beast will drink the blood of her enemies and eat their hearts. Beast is big-cat. Beast will rip out throats of her enemies.
And lead me further down the path of blood and death, I thought. Because I can’t figure out how to get off that path or how to change direction.
Or maybe the angel Hayyel will pop in and save me.
Right. Sure. Not.
Beast chuffed with amusement.
“Jane,” Alex shouted from the house. “See if you have a cell signal. If so, call someone onshore and see if you get through.”
I rolled over and dialed the number of Gee DiMercy. The call went through. And I gave my Enforcer directions, instructions, and, when he argued, orders. I’d developed the belief that Titus would betray the agreements whether he won or lost. And I had an idea how to defeat that.
CHAPTER 16
A Mad Witch Is Never a Good Witch
The outdoor shower worked, the bathers’ privacy assured by clapboard walls and a twisting cattle-path-style entrance. There were small and medium palm varieties planted around it and around the house as landscaping. Lounge chairs were on the sand at one beach so vamps and humans could watch the moon rise. More chairs at another so humans could watch the sun rise. And chairs at a third for sunset watching. On such a small island, most of the beaches were in line of sight from each other.
The island looked pretty. More importantly, we now had six fighting rings, three on the third floor and three under the house on the hard-packed sand. These were laid out with river rock, brought in on the tugs and half buried in the sand. Lights had been mounted. Outdoor bouts had sounded like a lark to the vamps who were already on-site, and they did look pretty spiffy, though fighting on sand, even hard sand like that beneath the house, was tricky. The construction types had earned their bonuses.
The house was staged. The furniture was in place: sofas, chairs, tables, lamps, beds. A lot of beds, mostly bunks, but a few kings, and queen bunk beds for the vamps. A pool table that had to weigh half a ton. Food, wine, and alcohol had been ferried over. There were rugs tastefully placed and art hung on the newly painted walls. Linens had been brought in. The housekeeping staff had made up the beds, put towels and washcloths and soaps and hotel-sized toiletries in the bathrooms. There were even flowers all over, live ferns and leafy things. Plus the cut flowers all over the kitchen in crystal vases.
The entire island was gorgeous. The house was stunning.
Since four p.m., the two helos and two chartered boats had been taking the construction types back to shore and bringing in our people. The last helo carrying humans and construction equipment was taking off with a rotor roar and lights flashing against a cerise sky as dusk knocked on the horizon. The next helo would begin the transfer of vamps.
Soon, the house and the entire island would be packed. Even with the construction crew gone, there would be too many people, creatures, beings, their scents all mingled and mangled and jarring, merging into an overwhelming pong, though the constant breezes and perpetual gulf rains would blow and wash a lot of it away. The noise of helos and voices and stomping feet and complaining already hurt my ears. Everyone was rushing around getting settled, storing gear. It was a morass of conflicting stinks and sounds and color.
Part of me loved the excitement, looked forward to the fights. I figured that part of me was nutso. The rest of me wanted to hitch a ride back to NOLA. It crossed my mind that I could maybe swim back if I only had a dolphin bone or maybe even a shark tooth. But . . .
We had been given notice of the beginning of the Sangre Duello. Just a few hours away, at ten p.m., Titus, his first round of fighters, his security, and his blood-servants would all be ashore. There would be no preliminaries, as at a parley. No long titles or jibber jabber. No semipolite or stiletto-sharp discussions. There would be two hours for the seconds to approve of the final arrangements of the first bouts, for the weapons of the first round to be chosen and inspected, and for the fighting rings to be assigned. Titus and his minions would be fed a meal and then led up the stairs to the third floor, settled on benches, and given time to armor up and warm up as needed.
At midnight tonight the first bout would begin.
I was not ready, but my gear was all here, including the things I’d told Gee DiMercy to pack and ship. Leo had approved my idea to defeat a betrayal by Titus by involving Ayatas and Rick, though not on the island as PsyLED had wanted. Maybe I was learning how to sneak around and strategize in overlapping layers like the vamps. Or like Beast. Thanks to my one phone call, my final plans were in play.
* * *
• • •
I was on my knees beside the bunk bed I’d chosen when I heard a familiar tap-tap-tapping of heels on wood floors, climbing stairs. I dropped to my butt, my back to the door. “No,” I whispered. But the familiar cadence was still climbing, followed by a thump-thump-thumping I couldn’t place. I scooted around to the door and spotted Molly, my BFF, taking the last step to the second floor, her red hair already springing into tight curls with the salty moisture. She was dragging a large bag, what I’d heard her refer to as a portmanteau. The bag opened into two parts, and had been designed half for clothes and half for magical trinkets. By the way it thumped on the steps, I knew she had packed heavy on the magical crap.