As Luke surfaced from his latest meal drugging, he tried to remember if he pushed the stone back into the hole before succumbing to the drugs. He thought so. He didn’t want it discovered, so when he returned to his cell after the latest fight, he could still find Roxi on the other side.
Without opening his eyes, he knew he was in the elevator, waiting to be lifted into the arena. The air was too still and quiet to be heading into the MMA cage, plus he’d come to know the feel of being strapped to the elevator. The only difference today—he wasn’t wearing his armor or helmet. He was dressed in heavy cloth, he could feel that much.
He almost felt eager to meet whatever they’d throw at him in the arena, so he’d be able to take out his frustration and growing fury at Roxi being taken away. He drew in a deep breath and held it, letting his expanded lungs stretch the tightness in his ribcage. As he exhaled, he opened his eyes and looked down.
He was dressed like the mid-seventeenth century musketeers he’d fought a few days ago, except his tabard was red with gold highlighting, and instead of the traditional cross in the center, his bore a laurel wreath.
Chuckling, he shook his head. They did like to put on a show. Whoever his costumer was, they’d done a good job making him look like a Roman musketeer as they might have appeared in an alternative history. Now, he had a good idea who his opponent would be when he reached the arena floor.
When the straps released, he checked his left arm and right leg. The stitches remained in both. Using the time, he stretched and tried to get some blood moving through his muscles, paying special attention to the injured limbs so they’d be more resilient than if he went in cold.
The elevator finally ground to life, taking Luke to his next date in the arena. He hoped the roof was open today; he’d need the warm embrace of Selene’s silvery light if he actually hoped to make it through this fight. He was sure Le Mousquetaire would be fully juiced up and ready to go, and Luke wasn’t even all the way healed let alone at full power, not after who knew how long he’d been trapped here in his cage without his rudis or the ability to do any real conditioning.
When the elevator reached the top, he stepped into the arena. Unlike last time, the arena floor was free of obelisks. In front of him, sticking out of the ground like in all the previous fights, waited a gladius and a rapier.
“Of course…”
He looked up, breathing in the stagnant air of the closed arena. Grunting at the pull and twinge of the muscle in his injured leg, he sank to a knee behind the gladius, wrapping his hands around the hilt. He closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“My mistress, please watch over me in this struggle and please protect Roxi wherever she is. May your light envelop and bless her.”
“Fight well, my brave soldier. I shall watch over you both.”
Luke felt a warm brush across his forehead. He pulled himself up. Selene’s brief benediction would have to do. Standing between the rapier and the gladius, he rested his hands on them, waiting. He ignored the announcer and the mildly creative verbal abuse leveled at Luke as he warmed up the crowd. Luke kept his focus squarely on the door where his opponent would emerge.
“And now for your hero, the dashing and engaging, the right hand of Richelieu, the terror of France, the only thing sharper than his rapier is his wit. He’s enough musketeer for all three, plus a couple bonus musketeers. He’s killed more hunters than the plague. He’s the vampire of your heart and the vengeance of all the victims of the cockroach—Le Mousquetaire!”
The crowd erupted in cheers, hands clapping and feet stamping. Le Mousquetaire strutted out from the tunnel waving aristocratically, rolling his hand slowly as if he were the queen riding by her peasants. When he drew near Luke, he looked over Luke’s head.
Tipping his head toward Luke, Le Mousquetaire spoke toward him. “Turn and bow to your emperor, cockroach. He has a special guest tonight.”
Luke turned, following Le Mousquetaire’s gaze to a box at the edge of the arena. Flavius, wearing the purple toga of a Roman emperor and a gold laurel wreath on his head, sat in the center of the box in a chair elevating him above the rest of the people in his box. Below him and to the left sat Roxi, strapped to a chair. She looked paler than usual, but she was alive. His heart soared at finding her there. Luke stared into her eyes. She looked weak and terrified, but also relieved to see him. Or, maybe, he was projecting his own feelings on her, but he’d stared into those eyes for months—it’d been their only contact. He thought he knew her eyes well enough by now.
Luke tipped his head toward Le Mousquetaire. “I hope you’re better with that rapier than your pupils were, or this won’t provide much entertainment to the blood suckers cheering for you.”
“The Mistress was one of my finest pupils and Guillaume was not too far behind her.” He kept his voice lofty and disinterested, as if he were above it all.
Luke snorted. “The Mistress was killed by a nine-year-old child, and Guillaume died fast and hard.”
“One cannot be blamed for the fickle changes of fortune and over-confident pupils,” Le Mousquetaire replied.
“Do your friends call you Le Mousquetaire? At cocktail Parties? ‘Do you need a beer, Le Mousquetaire?’ Seems kind of pretentious.” Luke chuckled at his own joke.
“Vampires don’t have friends, only inferiors and superiors.” He spoke the words with disdain for Luke’s attempt at humor.
“Then I guess I won’t feel bad since no one will mourn you.”
“Ha! At least you’ll die confidently and with bravado.” Le Mousquetaire fixed his gaze on Roxi. “She looks like a tasty little morsel. I can’t say I’ve ever tasted from a hunter as old as she’s reputed to be. I look forward to draining her blood slowly and making her beg for my blood in return. Too bad you won’t be around to see how powerful of a vampire she’ll become.”
“I wish you the best of luck. If you survive me, I don’t fancy your luck with her.” Luke laughed.
It was meant to be the worst way a vampire could threaten a hunter. And though he had no evidence to back it up, he was almost certain no hunter touched by Mithras would be able to rise again. Mithras had planned his hunters too well to allow someone invested with such powers to rise as his enemy.
Le Mousquetaire pulled his rapier from its scabbard and brought it up so it was in front of his face in a salute to Flavius.
“I should have killed that little shit when I had the opportunity. It won’t be a mistake I make again,” Luke said.
Le Mousquetaire turned and walked toward his starting position. “It’s good to have goals and dreams. It’ll make it that much sweeter when you spill out your life on my sword.”
“I doubt you’re vamp enough to accomplish what no other vampire has managed to do in nearly two thousand years.”
Now, it was Luke’s turn to be saluted by Le Mousquetaire. Luke pulled on both the gladius and the rapier. The gladius came free of the stand while the rapier was locked into place. “My mistress, the rapier?” He felt its locking mechanism snick, and the rapier come free. Lifting it to his head, he saluted Le Mousquetaire. A brief flash of consternation came and went across the vampire’s face as his eyes flicked to the rapier. Apparently, like in the first fight, it was only there to tease him.
The gladius would make a good parrying dagger and second attack option to accompany the simple rapier they’d supplied. Le Mousquetaire’s rapier, like The Mistress’s, was a work of art with spirals of elegantly engraved and bejeweled metal swirling around the handle and up the forte of the blade. He’d love to add it to his collection and pair it with The Mistress’s sword. At least, he hoped it was still in his collection. It might not have made it back with his friends. The thought of his friends sent a crushing wave of sadness to his guts, forcing him to fight the desire to just curl up on the ground.
The sound of the air horn snapped him out of his head, dumping adrenaline into his system as he slid into an en garde position. His world focused on just him and Le Mousquetaire—the crowd noise disappeared as did any details other than the vampire in front of him.
Le Mousquetaire started with a quick but basic set of attacks. Luke easily parried them, giving the appropriate responses, guessing the old vampire was testing Luke’s actual abilities with the long, thin sword. Finding an opening, Luke launched a different series of attacks from one of the various French rapier schools he’d studied. Le Mousquetaire met them easily.
If the contest weren’t in earnest, Luke would’ve been having fun. Le Mousquetaire appeared to be a well-schooled student of the rapier, at least in French rapier techniques. When the next opportunity came to press his own attack, Luke shifted to the German methods he’d studied in depth at the time. Luke caught him off guard, pushing him back and drawing the first less than perfect responses. If Le Mousquetaire had only devoted himself to the French schools as a French partisan, Luke might have a chance to end this with the right mix of German and Italian techniques.
While Luke thought he could beat Le Mousquetaire’s technique, he could already feel his body flagging. The slashed leg tugged at him if he moved too quickly. While the gladius made for an effective defensive weapon, its weight—heavier than an appropriately paired dagger—tired his injured left arm. If Luke was going to end this before Le Mousquetaire, he was going to have to take some chances.
Luke slipped in a combo of a couple different techniques that had always drawn touches when he’d been training with the best swordsmen of Italy and Germany. When the sound of slicing cloth silenced the crowd, sucking the air from the arena, Luke followed with a killing thrust that Le Mousquetaire barely parried, resulting in the first blood drawn of the night. A blossom of deep red drenched the edges of the cloth along the fanger’s shoulder.
Le Mousquetaire used his vampiric speed to disengage and re-approach Luke, a look of stern concentration on his face. Luke was glad he’d forced the vampire to stop underestimating him, but he’d rather fight an overconfident opponent. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled it violently, darting in with a new series of techniques. This time, the fanger was ready, countering with an interesting combination. Somehow, either Luke’s arm failed him or Le Mousquetaire had slipped through his guard, opening a line of blood in Luke’s left forearm.
Luke hissed in pain, countering instantly to drive the vampire back while trying to keep a grip on the gladius. The cut was shallow, but it burned like hell. It was time to end the rapier games. Luke went looking for what speed and power he could muster from the reserve Mithras had given him and shifted to a unique hybrid style he’d spent his lifetime developing.
Le Mousquetaire’s eyes opened wide as he gave ground, trying to keep up with Luke’s sword, barely parrying or deflect the heavy blows and sneaky thrusts and slashes Luke intermixed to keep the vampire off beat. When he opened a bloody gash, seeping the thick reddish-black blood of a vampire across Le Mousquetaire’s thigh, Luke sidestepped the vampire’s counter and opened another shallow line across the fanger’s ribs.
His lungs heaving, Luke tried to press further to keep Le Mousquetaire from disengaging and resetting, but his initial burst of power was reaching a premature conclusion. It’d been months since he’d topped up on a vampire, and his time trapped in this vampire prison combined with his injuries had robbed him of his vitality.
Le Mousquetaire, sensing the shift, disengaged but didn’t reengage, instead setting up an organized retreat that kept Luke from getting any serious attacks but forced him to follow the vampire. Time was on the fanger’s side as his wounds trickled to a stop. The shallow ones looked like they might be sealing themselves and starting their healing process. The vampire’d topped up on blood before the fight and was in full form; soon, he’d be back to nearly one hundred percent while Luke only went downhill.
Letting the vampire open a gap, Luke wiped his sleeve across his forehead to clear the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes. Instead of following along, Luke stopped, breathing hard. If Le Mousquetaire wanted him, he’d have to come to Luke. The grin on Le Mousquetaire’s face turned feral as he circled Luke, occasionally darting in to lay down a new series of attacks. Sometimes Luke countered them, sending the vampire skittering back out of range, but with each successive attack, Le Mousquetaire drew blood more often than not.
Luke was being played with—a mouse the cat was torturing for the cruel amusement of his master. The roar of the crowd with its jeers steadily broke through into Luke’s awareness, adding another distraction.
He had little time left if he didn’t do something about it. Looking deep in his soul for any reserves, he cast a quick prayer to Selene and attacked. The fierce brutality of the gladius-led attacks drove the vampire back, hushing the crowd slightly. Luke could see the fight in front of him, see the counters, and knew he’d land the blow he needed in just a few more moves. Adjusting to the counter he expected, he planted on his wounded leg and thrust forward, only to have the leg collapse under him, dumping him into the dirt of the arena. It was over. Le Mousquetaire had run Luke out of energy until his body had failed him. The fanger could finish him at any time.
Le Mousquetaire initial shock at Luke’s collapse quickly turned to feral glee as he circled his downed prey.
“Hold on, my brave soldier, just for a little longer…”
Selene’s voice sounded through his head and soul, numbing his body but only just around the edges. Swatting aside a tentative trust from Le Mousquetaire, Luke struggled to his feet, trying to keep as little weight on his wounded leg as possible. His body shook from the exhaustion and exertion.
Each parried thrust, each deflected blow, Luke struggled to meet. When the Mousquetaire pierced Luke’s left shoulder, he dropped the gladius, no longer able to grip it. As the vampire made his next attack, he went high. Luke deflected it, but the tip grazed across his forehead, warm blood dribbling out of it. He wiped it away with a sleeve already bloodied from the wounds in his arms. He had nothing left. The next pass by the fanger would be Luke’s last.
Le Mousquetaire prepared to make his next attack when a series of explosions ripped through the stadium. Screams rose from the crowd, the shaking of the arena sending Luke back to the ground. He wiped a sleeve across his bleeding forehead and looked up. Someone had blasted holes around the edge of the arena’s ceiling, and whoever they were repelled into the stadium like commandos—werewolf commandos.
Luke laughed weakly. When the wolves reached a comfortable level, they let go of the ropes, landing nimbly in the stadium. Once their feet hit the ground, they grabbed the nearest vampires and tore them to shreds. Shotgun blasts rang out from various points around him. It was the sweetest music at that moment.
He checked on Le Mousquetaire, but only saw his back as he ran toward Flavius’s box.
“Save the emperor! Get him to safety and get that fucking hunter out of here!” Le Mousquetaire yelled.
Roxi! Luke tried to rise but only collapsed in a heap. His body was torn, leaking blood from too many shallow cuts. He didn’t know which was the best arm/leg combo to stand and move. When he finally found it, he staggered after Le Mousquetaire.
“LUKE!” Roxi screamed.
He wiped blood from his forehead again. “Roxi! ROXI!”
Someone was trying to move her as she struggled against her restraints. Luke saw the glint of metal as something was injected into her.
“No!” Luke yelled, losing his muscles again as he tumbled to the ground.
Chaos reigned around the stadium. As a cluster of werewolves tore through the crowd, aiming for Flavius, Le Mousquetaire looked at Luke, then at his emperor. Deciding, he sprinted across the arena floor and out the tunnel, which swiftly closed again. A minute later, he saw the vampire struggling through the arena seats to protect the emperor and organize the vampires he’d rallied. Some had weapons, but most didn’t.
“Roxi…”
“Hold on, Lucius.” Selene’s voice was strong as beams of moonlight tainted by dust fell through the holes the werewolves had blasted through the ceiling. As he tried to watch what was going on, he noted a cluster of wolves protecting someone with a heavy pack on their back. A moment later, when the pack was set down, Luke realized what it was when a tall, thin Latino fired up a cutting torch and started burning through the steel cage separating the arena from the audience’s seats.
“Jorge?” Luke muttered. He started to laugh. His friends were here.
A couple minutes later, several werewolves ran across the arena floor toward him. He didn’t recognize them, but one of them slid in next to him and pulled a bag off their back. Rustling through it, they pulled out bandages and wrapped up the most obviously egregious of Luke’s wounds.
“We have to find Roxi,” Luke said, having trouble forming the words and making them clear, the exhaustion and blood loss robbing him of even the most basic abilities. “Roxi…”
The wolves looked at each other, shrugging and shaking their heads. A moment later, a tall black woman in a leather three-quarter trench coat joined them.
“We need to get him out of here. I’ve got his rudis, but we need to find some vampires for him.” She pumped her shotgun and turned toward the arena’s door when it groaned open, but relaxed. “Good. They’ve found an easier way out. Pick him up. We’ll carry him out.”
“Delilah?” Luke mumbled.
“What’re you saying, Luke?”
“Delilah. Roxi.” He couldn’t tell if his tongue was working or not. His tongue felt like dead weight in his mouth.
“What? I can’t understand you.”
He swallowed, trying to concentrate. “Roxi.”
“I don’t know what that means, Luke. We have to go.”
“No…” Luke struggled as one of the wolves tried to pick him up.
“Damn it, Luke. Quit fighting or we’ll have to sedate you,” Delilah ordered, irritation staining her voice.
“Roxi…” Luke stopped struggling. If he were sedated, he couldn’t save Roxi.
He felt like a prisoner in his brain. Control over his body was lost to him, but Selene’s touch kept his brain semi-alert. Luke tried to hold his head steady as the werewolf ran after Delilah into the tunnel Luke’s opponents had emerged from for his fights. It was dark as it sloped downward to turn into a dimly lighted hall.
“There’s a vamp body up ahead. Set him down by it.” Delilah pulled the backpack off and retrieved his rudis from it. With a calm efficiency, she plunged it into the heart of the vampire. “Prop him up.”
Luke weakly lifted his shaking hands to the rudis. Delilah took them, covered them with hers, and held them in place around the hilt. He lowered his head on its wobbly neck until his forehead hit the pommel button. Taking a deep breath through burning lungs, he exhaled and concentrated. The incantation he’d spoken more times than probably any other words in his life ran through his head, too ingrained to slip from even his blood-loss addled brain. When he finished, a pure, white light danced its way down the sliver filigree and silver alloy cutting edges to disappear into the vampire’s body. It reemerged a moment later and retraced its journey to disappear into Luke’s forehead.
The aching in his body lessened slightly, but his head remained foggy and disconnected. After the damage his body had taken and the time since his last vampire top up, it would take way more than one measly fanger to render him whole again.
“Pick him up. He’s still going to be too weak.” Delilah stood and yanked the rudis from the vampire, sending it dissolving into the red-black goop of a decomposing young vamp after being staked for a true death. “We’ll find more vamps along the way if we have time.”
“No, Delilah. Roxi. GottasaveRoxi…” Except for the incantation, which was almost always clear even in times of bodily distress, Luke still couldn’t get his mouth to work right.
“Luke, I don’t know what you mean. We have to get you out of here. We’re outnumbered, and if they get weapons, we’re going to be in deep shit.” Delilah tried to keep her voice calm, but her bunched eyebrows spoke of her irritation. “Now let’s go. Time isn’t on our side.”
Tears streamed down his face, tracing tracks through the blood drying on his face. They couldn’t leave Roxi, not after he’d found her. He needed her to be alive and free. He needed her.
“No…” He tried struggling, but the werewolf’s hold was too firm, despite the apparent gentleness of the wolf’s grasp.
“Damn it, Luke. Stop it,” Delilah waved her group forward, only stopping to pull a piece of paper from her pocket. Once she checked on it, she took the next right then left.
When they found another vampire, they stopped so Luke could siphon it off. Even with a second, he couldn’t make himself understood, even if he had more strength to struggle with.
“I warned you, Luke,” Delilah said. She nodded to someone behind the wolf holding Luke.
Someone held his arm immobile as his sleeve was ripped open. A moment later, he felt a prick in his arm. “No…”
They’d put it into his vein. He had no more fight to give—nor could he, with yet more drugs in his blood, this time put there by his friends. Tears streaked out of his eyes as his eyelids drifted shut, ignoring Luke’s struggle to keep them open.