“We believe she’s in town and has promised each of her coconspirators what they want: Walter to Willim, Angie Baby to Karson along with Master of the City status, and the queen andthe emperor for herself, with posts and positions of power to any others who chose to support her.”
“Already put that together,” I said, my words clipped. I flashed angry-hot, and turned down the heated seats.
“Well, I’m still not up to speed,” EJ said.
The car was rocked by another gust of wind. Outside, frozen rain and sleet were peppering down and had begun to accumulate. The higher elevation meant colder temps. The vehicle changed gear to traction control, and slowed.
“Whatever they’re planning,” Alex said, “they’ve been laying the groundwork for a long time. Their opening move in Chat-town was Tony Montgomery taking Angie—but getting Angie’s friend—in order to force Walter on scene so they could take him. Except Tony failed because Angie Baby is a badass fighter, and then Londyn got angry and set things in motion too soon. That’s the current consideration of the sec team. And now we’re all having to play catch-up and cleanup.”
“Thank you,” Walter said. “I assume you are aware of our location and our destination.”
“Yup. Keep your heads.” Alex ended the call.
Keep your heads. A statement referring to not losing a Sangre Duello challenge. They were allowing us continued autonomy, meanwhile, coven and clan would be making plans without our input. As usual.
The vehicle made a soft purr as the frictionless sodium-battery engine climbed higher. The wipers swished as a swirling blast of wind whipped against the vehicle, rocking it. Winter storms were rare. But they always sucked.
Walter touched his screen and paired his unicom to the larger screen on the dash.
A woman’s image, who I assumed to be Julietta Ravensport,appeared. She stood in front of the queen’s official residence, carrying two swords and wearing combat armor. Her black hair was tied back in a fighting queue. She roared a challenge. “I challenge Jane Yellowrock in Sangre Duello, for her position as leader of Clan Yellowrock.” She whipped her swords in a move like angel wings unfurling and rising.
Walter paused the action, focusing on Ravensport’s face, which was vamped out and violent, fangs down, eyes black.
EJ leaned into the screen. “I didn’t know any of this.”
“You were at war. Angelina was no longer under royal protection,” Walter said. “All that stood between the queen and another war, were three swordsmen, Jane’s tertio, secondo, and primo.”
“And her primo was the emperor,” EJ said.
“Had Ravensport defeated all three,” Walter said, “she would automatically have become the Empress of Europe. She then would have fought and killed Jane Yellowrock. Three Sangre Duello challenges instead of dozens, to become the Empress of Europe, the Dark Queen of the vampires, and the holder of the loyalty of every vampire in the country.”
“Those layered and twisted relationships,” EJ said, “they’ve now been dismantled?”
“Yes. Thoroughly.”
A paused vid appeared on the screen.
Ravensport stood in a familiar La Destreza stance, a typical Sangre Duello longsword in one hand, and an unusual shortsword in her left. The sword had two blades, one for a forehand strike and the other for a backhand strike. Oddly, there was also a short punch-blade at the grip. It was a dangerous weapon to wield, as the likelihood of self-harm was high.
Sleet beat against the moving vehicle; where it landed now, it clung. Walter adjusted the heat setting to melt it. The higherin elevation the vehicle climbed, the more sleet there was on the road, on the lawns, and coating the bare-branched trees.
Walter seemed to steel himself, his body going into a vampire stillness that was almost statue-like. No breath. No heartbeat. Not the slightest flutter of life. His unblinking eyes were centered on the frozen screen, taking in the paused footage.
“You haven’t seen this?” I asked.
“No.” He took a breath and continued. “Ravensport’s opponent was a skilled warrior in a variety of sword-fighting techniques and a master in several martial arts disciplines. His name was Yàn Zhao. Zhao was turned in the fifteenth century, a man of Asian descent.” Walter’s eyes softened and he blinked once. “He brewed a lovely tea. His blood was potent and acidic, a bit spicy, like a bloody mary, the kind made in Texas, with extra Texas Pete.”
Walter and this man had been…friends. At least.
“Yàn Zhao had never fought an opponent wielding this weapon.” Walter touched the screen.
A bell chimed, signaling the beginning of the match. In three moves, Julietta Ravensport ended the combat.
Her first move was a circular swing of the longsword called thecage of death. With her second move, she stepped into Yàn Zhao’s guard. Wove the small triple-bladed weapon in a complex move that cut deep, vaguely in the shape of an ampersand. She disemboweled Yàn Zhao. What amounted to intestines in a vampire, tumbled out and down. With her third move, the second one with her longsword, Ravensport stepped to the side and took Yàn Zhao’s head.
I watched Walter as his old friend’s head whirled to the side. Toppled. Landed at his own feet just as his body, perfectly balanced, began to crumple to the ground.
Walter’s voice was coarse when he spoke, as if tears cloggedit. “This was the end of my old friend—true death, in combat.” He blinked at tears gathered in his eyes. Grief. Agony.
