David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“He still loves you,” Ezra said, crouching down as she circled her, looking like a strange animal ready for the pounce. Even her eyes were wide and wild. “But even he knows that the loyalty of our faith must come before those we love.”

“Some faith,” Zusa said, grinning to hide her exhaustion and worry. “Is that what they told you when they stripped you naked and forced you into the Faceless? Loyalty before love?”

Ezra thrust, but pulled it back when Zusa moved to block it. Another thrust, this one equally prepared for. Ezra was testing for an opening, gauging her reaction speed. Zusa felt her nerves fraying. She didn’t have time for this.

“You don’t deserve his love,” Ezra said.

“You’re wrong,” Zusa said. “He doesn’t deserve mine.”

Zusa took the offensive, and was surprised when Ezra did not move to block. Instead she remained still, even when the daggers closed in on her neck. But Zusa did not cut flesh. Instead her daggers moved right through, as if hitting a mirage. From behind her she heard laughter, and spun to find Ezra there, twirling her daggers in mockery.

“I have Karak’s blessing,” she said. “Behold his gift.”

As Zusa watched, Ezra’s form grew still, then blinked away, just an afterimage. It was like when staring too long at the sun, the seeing of something burned into the eye that wasn’t actually there. Zusa tensed for an attack, but could only guess where it would come from.

“I prayed,” Ezra said, off to her left. Zusa spun, but again just an afterimage. When Ezra spoke again, she was on the right. “All night I prayed for the strength to defeat you. And now I have it.”

The image of her shifted, and suddenly she was mere inches away, leering toward her.

“I can move faster than the eye,” she told Zusa, laughing. “What hope have you now?”

Zusa swung at her, and their daggers connected. For a moment it was an old, familiar dance, a give and take of position that Zusa knew she could easily win. But when she tried to finish her opponent, to thrust through an opening to pierce Ezra’s heart, Ezra’s form turned blurry, and then she was ten feet away down the street.

“Damn it,” Zusa whispered. She didn’t have time for this, but she had to remain calm, had to think. Slowly Ezra approached, reeking of confidence.

“Will you always run?” Zusa asked her. “Stand and fight, and stop using Karak’s gift as an excuse to hide your cowardice.”

Ezra shook her head, still walking toward her. Every slow footstep ate away another second, each one perhaps the difference between life and death for Alyssa. And Ezra knew it, too. Zusa could see it in the mocking glint in the woman’s eyes.

Zusa flung herself forward, a rash attack that Ezra would expect from her. With her skill, it might have been enough to overwhelm Ezra, but Zusa had something else in mind. At the last moment, just before their daggers clashed, she dove to the side, making a run toward the mansion. Ezra spun, and Zusa trusted her to react on instinct, to believe her frantically running toward her loved ones.

A mere two steps toward the mansion, Zusa flipped her left dagger so the blade faced downward in her fist, then dug her heels in so she might fling herself backward. It was a blind stab, a gamble, as her dagger thrust through her own cloak. Ezra collided with her, caught unaware of the sudden change in her direction. The blade of the dagger punched through cloth, flesh, then belly. Ezra gasped, her upper body collapsing against Zusa, her head on her shoulder. Zusa twisted, keeping the position awkward and their bodies entangled so Ezra could not thrust.

“Zusa…” gasped Ezra as her body shivered.

“You should have listened,” Zusa said, pulling her dagger free. “You could have found freedom. You could have prevented this.”

When she pushed away, the other woman had nothing to lean against, and no strength of her own to stand. Zusa ran on, leaving Ezra to die alone, slumped over in the dirt and darkness.

Alyssa lay on the floor of Nathaniel’s room, slowly breathing in and out as blood trickled down the side of her chest to the carpet. The small bolt had caught her right breast, and with each breath it flared with pain. Despite every desire to move, to scream and fight, she could do nothing, immobilized by the poison coursing through her veins.

“Don’t cry, Nathan,” Stephen said, a second bolt readied in the crossbow and aimed straight at him. “I know you’re young, but Melody’s said much of you. You’re a bright child, a wise child. I think you’re ready for this, ready to see the ugly truth behind the lies of this world.”

A tear ran down Alyssa’s face. She could see her son crouched on his bed, struggling not to cry. His entire body quivered with fear. A fresh wave of seething hatred flushed through Alyssa, and she tried to stand, to move her disobedient limbs. Still nothing.

“Don’t hurt her,” she heard her son whimper.

“Shush now,” Stephen said, lowering the crossbow. Odd as it was, it seemed as if he meant the comforting words he spoke. “I didn’t say this would be easy. But this must be done. It must. Do you love your grandmother, Nathan?”

Nathaniel glanced at her, their eyes meeting. The terror there was so deep, but he was still fighting, still trying to think of what to do and what to say. She’d never felt more proud, and her heart ached that she’d never see what type of man he’d become.

“Yes,” he said.

“I love her, too,” Stephen said. He straddled Alyssa’s waist while on his knees. The crossbow he placed beside him, and from his pocket he pulled out a slender knife. He leaned close to Alyssa, peering down at her with heavily painted eyes. The wig hung loose from his head, and at such a close distance, she could see flakes of dead flesh.

“I love her more than your mother does,” he continued. “More than anyone ever has. Yet do you know what your grandfather did? Do you know what he put her through?”

Alyssa thought of the story she’d been told, of Maynard giving Melody over to Leon’s gentle touchers. She tried to make the connection, to understand.

“You don’t know,” Stephen whispered, leaning closer so that their noses touched. “You’re trying, but you don’t know. Leon loved her, just like I loved her, but he couldn’t do anything. How’d you put it? Your father would have killed my father if he’d found out? Such a sick man. Sick! And do you know what’s worse, Nathan?”

He glanced at her son.

“Your grandfather paid for your grandmother to be tortured. Paid like she was just another common whore needing to be put in her place. Do you know how much?”

Alyssa’s terror deepened. She knew the amount, knew it before the words even left Stephen’s lips.

“Two gold, and two silver.”

The knife slipped closer, pressing against the underside of her left eye. Panic flushed her mind, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t move…

She looked to her son, knew it was the last time she’d ever see him.

The knife pushed in, twisted, cut. The pain was white hot, and she felt tears and blood pour down her face. With a plop the eye came free, and Stephen held it in his soft, delicate hand. Nathaniel let out a cry, and Stephen whirled on him with a fury.

“You watch!” he cried. “Damn you, you little child, you watch! They left me in darkness when I was your age, just like they left her. I had to listen to her screams as they tortured her, and stuck in their pins like it was all just a game.”

“Mom,” Nathaniel said, face red, nose and eyes running. She wanted to go to him, wanted to hold him. But Stephen was not yet done.

“Darkness,” he said, turning back. He was speaking to her now, not her son. He twisted the bolt back and forth in her chest, just to make sure it still hurt. “Years and years in darkness, always alone but for your mother’s beautiful songs. But she won’t be your mother anymore. She’ll be mine, just mine.”