Josh Reynolds - Neferata

Neferata laughed. ‘Do you not have enough friends, Zandor?’

‘None like you, my lady. Hetman Ushoran speaks highly of you,’ Zandor said, stirring the water with his hand. ‘And Khaled as well, though he is, perhaps, biased.’

Neferata was silent for a moment. ‘You were Strezyk’s get, weren’t you, Zandor?’ she said.

Zandor stiffened. ‘And so,’ he said. ‘May a man not expand beyond his horizons?’

‘Not if he is wise,’ Neferata said softly.

Zandor stood. ‘I am sorry that you feel that way. I had hoped to avoid a scene, but obviously you will not heed wisdom.’ He turned. ‘Kurven,’ he said.

The vampire who entered the bathhouse was massive. There was too much beast to this one, Neferata knew. He had let himself slip into the permanent red twilight that creatures like Vorag danced along the edge of. Wide eyes bulged over a quivering, wet spear-blade nose, and a mouthful of fangs surfaced from a bramble-like beard. He was a hairy creature and fairly bursting out of his cuirass. A crooked claw pointed at her. ‘I challenge you,’ he growled, mangling the words into near unintelligibility.

Neferata’s eyes flickered to Zandor, who smirked. Memories were short, even among immortals it seemed. Or, more likely, Kurven was a professional duellist. She noted the trio of necklaces that hung from the brute’s neck, each one heavy with extracted fangs. ‘Ushoran will be unhappy with you, Zandor,’ she said, not moving from the water. ‘I am his left hand.’

‘Then maybe it’s time he got a new one,’ Zandor said. ‘Women should not meddle in politics.’ He looked at Kurven. ‘Kill her. We all saw you challenge her. None here will say it wasn’t fair and by the law.’

Kurven gave a howl that rattled the tiles of the bathhouse, and sprang for her. Neferata sank beneath the water swiftly. The brute landed with a splash, his talons gouging the spot where she had rested. She rose behind him, fangs bared. Kurven spun, eyes blazing.

She ducked under the Strigoi’s swipe and slashed him across the face, eliciting a screech. He was more angry than hurt. Quicker than she expected he lunged and caught her, shoving her beneath the water and driving her into the bottom of the bath. This one knew how to fight, unlike Strezyk. She brought her legs up and drove her feet into his belly.

Kurven released her and reared back. Neferata burst from the water, claws stretching for his hairy throat. The Strigoi were cheering, so certain of the beast’s victory that they did not notice the door to the bathhouse burst open to admit Naaima and the others. With vengeful shrieks, the vampire-women dived onto the Strigoi even as Neferata launched herself at Kurven and buried her fangs in his throat.

Digging her claws into his chest, she whipped her head back, tearing his throat out in a welter of gore. Kurven gagged horribly and sank into the water, trying to hold his ruined throat together. Neferata didn’t let him slip far. She hoisted him up, her talons sunken knuckle deep into the meat of his chest. She gave a shove with one hand, and bone buckled and splintered as she dug out Kurven’s heart. Wrenching the organ loose she stared at it for a moment before she buried her fangs in it, swallowing its final, plaintive beat. She let Kurven sink into the darkening water and climbed out, still holding the heart in one hand.

The fight between her followers and the Strigoi had been quick. Only Zandor and Gashnag had remained to fight, while the others had fled as soon as they realised that Kurven was dead. Gashnag lay groaning on the ground, Stregga’s foot pressed to the back of his skull and his blood dripping from her hands. Naaima was far stronger than a puling creature like Zandor and she had him on his knees, his arms twisted behind his back and his scalplock jerked tight, forcing him to stare up at Neferata as she swayed towards him, trailing Kurven’s blood behind her.

‘Somehow, I think you thought that this was going to go differently, Ajal Zandor,’ Neferata purred, sinking to her haunches. She held up Kurven’s mangled heart and showed it to him. ‘I want you to remember this moment, Zandor. Remember my hand on a Strigoi heart, and I want you to recall that it could just as easily have been yours.’ She clenched her fist, crushing the lump of meat. ‘Let him go.’

‘We should kill him,’ Naaima hissed, leaning close to Zandor.

‘Aye, let’s take his fangs,’ Stregga said.

‘We already have,’ Neferata said, gesturing curtly. ‘Let him up, and Gashnag as well. Let’s not keep these fine ajals from their business, shall we?’

Zandor left, his glare hot with rage and not a little fear. Neferata smiled, satisfied. ‘The memory of Strezyk was getting stale. Now there’s a new memory to dampen the fire in their bellies,’ she said, looking at the others. Only Naaima wasn’t listening. Instead, she was crouched over the girl who’d been guarding the door. Neferata saw at once that the Strigoi had been at her. Some of them saw humans only as cattle. She looked at Rasha and Stregga. ‘Did you see the ones who did this?’

‘I did,’ Rasha growled.

‘Find them and bring me their fangs.’ Neferata looked at Iona and Anmar. ‘Follow Zandor and see where he goes. I want to know who convinced that jackal that he could get away with this.’ The vampires moved quickly, faster than the human eye could follow. Neferata watched them go and then turned back to Naaima. ‘Is she dead?’

‘Not yet.’ Naaima looked mournfully down into the girl’s features. ‘But she will not survive these wounds. Not unless we do something.’ A note of pleading entered her voice.

Neferata looked down at the serving girl, her body marred by great slashes and gouging, sloppy bite-marks. Her blood dripped down Naaima’s arms. Her eyelids fluttered and a quiet moan escaped from her mouth. Something that might have been pity stabbed at Neferata. Pragmatism reared its head, crushing pity beneath its relentless tread.

She looked at Naaima. ‘I have no need of her,’ she said. ‘Not with Djazk’s women.’

‘She was wounded in your service,’ Naaima said, stroking the girl’s brow. A fever-sweat had broken out, and Neferata could smell death congealing in the girl’s wounds. ‘You owe her…’

‘I owe her nothing. She failed, and she has paid for that failure. Besides, of what use would such a creature be to me?’ She knew it was the wrong thing to say even as she said it.

‘You forget who you speak to,’ Naaima said, and her voice was iron. ‘What was I, but a maid? I was a concubine, Neferata. I was a lower possession than a horse or hound. And you found use for me.’

Neferata looked at her handmaiden, eyes narrowing. ‘Are you challenging me?’

‘Yes,’ Naaima said simply. She neither bowed her head nor looked away. Between them, the girl moaned again, piteously.

Nonplussed, Neferata hesitated. She brushed a lock of the girl’s hair out of her face. ‘It is too late. I cannot save her,’ she said.

‘You can.’

Neferata met Naaima’s eyes and the former Queen of Lahmia was the first to look away. ‘What is her name?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘Layla,’ Naaima reminded her. ‘Her father was killed by the orcs. She used to work in the kitchens of Ushoran’s palace. The other girls accused her of putting on airs, and the cook beat her for being disrespectful. She does not know her place, and she does not fear the dark. That is why I took her.’

‘More fool she,’ Neferata said. Tenderly, she took the girl from Naaima and tilted her, so that her head lolled against Neferata’s shoulder. Then, with a sigh, she sank her fangs into the girl’s throat, drinking deeply and stabbing to the root of the girl’s life.

The blood-kiss was a sacred thing. It was a gift from Neferata to her chosen followers. As much as she took, she gave as well. It was a bond, forever linking her to them and vice-versa. Holding the girl, she extended her arm and Naaima took her wrist and forearm and bent her head. Her lips brushed the inside of Neferata’s wrist and then, with a sharp, bright flash of sweet pain, she opened her mistress’s veins. Neferata raised her bloody mouth from Layla’s throat and pressed her wrist to the girl’s slack lips. Her fingers curled as her hand flexed and blood rushed out, black and thick, into the girl’s mouth. ‘Drink, Layla,’ Neferata crooned. ‘Drink, scullery maid, or die.’