Painted Red
For a moment, all Myra could do was stare. He wore no armor, just one of his usual crimson tunics and a black vest. Blood drenched his clothes and streaked his face and hands, but his posture was strong, and she doubted any of the blood was his own.
“You… you filth. You did this. My friends are dying because of you.”
He sheathed one of his twin swords, now clean, but kept the other in his hand. “What? You think I led you into a trap to destroy you and Ila?” He knelt by one of the bodies and removed a short dagger from the dead vampire’s belt, tucking it into his own. “That would have been far too easy. Not my style.”
Nimah lifted herself on an elbow and snorted. “Right. Even if you didn’t betray us, someone did. Who else knew of our plan?”
“No one,” Vlad said.
“And by ‘no one’ you mean Tristan, Armida, and yourself,” Myra said. “One of you must have told someone.”
The Prince took a step towards the exit, his eyes running along the dark walls, examining every crack and crevice. His grip around his sword’s handle remained firm. “Armida and Tristan can keep a secret. Someone else must have heard us talking, though I cannot imagine how or when.”
“If you’re certain they said nothing, and no one could have overheard you,” Nimah said, “we are left with one option. You must have spilled the beans.”
He turned his gaze from the exit and looked back at her, one eyebrow raised. “If you are delirious from the blood loss, you better keep quiet and not waste our time.”
“And what about Callisto?” Myra said.
“What does Callisto have to do with anything?” Vlad said, his voice sharp.
“You might have written to her about your plans, and she might have told someone. Or someone might have intercepted the letter.”
“Which is one of about a thousand reasons I never told her.” He turned back towards the exit, sword raised. “Now is not the time to solve riddles. Come. It is not safe here, and we still have a Wizard to destroy.”
“Nimah is badly hurt,” Myra said. “She can’t walk.”
“Of course not,” Vlad said. “If she had been feeding well like a normal vampire, her wound would have started healing by now.”
Feeding well like a normal vampire. An idea struck Myra, and she looked at Nimah, shaking. “Would human blood help you heal? You can feed off me.”
The Prince laughed. “Myra, if you are so desperate for a bite, you should just say so.”
She tried to ignore him. “I mean it.”
Nimah smiled. “It is a noble gesture, child, but I cannot accept. I haven’t tasted human blood in centuries. If I start now, I might never stop.”
“And you prefer to die?” Myra said, incredulous, but another idea struck her. “What about vampire blood?”
“I drink vampire blood only if the vampire hasn’t fed on humans recently,” Nimah said.
Myra looked at Vlad. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you’ve been staying away from humans?”
“Indeed,” he said. “I fed on two domesticated humans just an hour ago. And if you thought I would let her drink me, you are out of your mind. I am not running some charity, sharing my blood with random vampires. Right now, I am the only one who can destroy the Wizard, and I need every single drop of blood I have.”
Destroy the Wizard? He still had hope? Perhaps all this would not be in vain after all. “So, what should we do?”
“About what?” he said. “I said we have to go. I said nothing about her.”
Myra stared at him. “You can’t mean to leave her here. You said it yourself—this place isn’t safe.”
“Again, I fail to see the problem.”
Myra met his gaze, her eyes burning. “She will die.”
He sighed. “And this is my concern because…”
Myra shook her head, throwing her arms in the air. “Honestly, you’re a monster.”
“No, I am a troubled and misunderstood soul with a heart of gold hidden beneath my uncaring exterior.” He rolled his eyes. “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself to help you justify our twisted friendship? Wake up, Myra. I am what I am. I want the Wizard destroyed, but I couldn’t care less about any of Ila’s vampires.”
Myra crossed her arms across her chest. “Then I’m staying.”
“No,” Nimah said. “The jerk is right about one thing. This place isn’t safe. You’ll be safer with him.”
“But…” Myra started to protest, and Vlad pushed her aside.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” he muttered and pushed the tip of his blade into Nimah’s heart.
“No!” Myra cried and rushed forward.
Vlad straightened up and held her back. “I am saving her life, you fool.”
“He is right,” Nimah said with a tired smile. “If anyone comes in here, my only chance is to play dead. I’m obviously neither beheaded nor burnt, so my only chance is to make them believe I was staked. I need blood on my chest.”
“But you will lose even more blood,” Myra said.
“The wound is shallow. It will stop bleeding soon.” Vlad knelt down to reach inside Nimah’s pouch. “I believe I have a better use for this.” He took out the explosives.
Myra threw Nimah one last look as they left the cave. “She can’t recover and leave the cave on her own, right? After this fight is over, we need to come back for her.”
He rolled his eyes. “This is ridiculous. You heard Ila—after this fight is over, we are enemies. She will try to hunt me down and kill me. Why would I be going around saving her lackeys?”
“Vlad, please,” Myra said softly. “You must promise me that if anything happens to me in this fight, you will tell her people where to find her.”
“Stop with the dark self-pitying predictions,” he said. “Nothing will happen to you as long as you stay by my side.”
“Promise me,” she said. “Please.”
He sighed. “All right, I promise.”
As he spoke, he sheathed his sword, pulled his bow from his back, nocked a wooden arrow, and let it fly. Myra’s gaze followed the arrow’s path to a group of a dozen vampires approaching them. The arrow struck the first one’s heart, and Vlad fired three more, each finding its mark. He then returned his bow to his back and unsheathed his twin swords once again, lunging towards their attackers.
Myra blinked—the whole scene had taken place in less than a heartbeat. She had barely seen the vampires approaching, and four of them were already dead. How could she ever hope to match such speed? But she clutched at her own knife and ran after him.
One vampire fired a wooden arrow towards the Prince, but he swung his swords, cutting it down midair. Another arrow flew, aimed at his heart, and this time he sheathed one sword, caught the projectile in its flight, flung it back with his bare hand, and unsheathed his blade once again. All within the blink of an eye, and another attacker lay dead.
Vlad reached the group and swung both his swords in wide arcs. One found a vampire’s neck and went straight through, the cut strong and clean, as if slicing through a ripe pear. But the other sword met a blade, and the metal clanged, loud and clear, the sound resonating across the battlefield. A great sword swung down, aimed at the Prince’s head. He crossed his swords high above his head, blocking the powerful swing, but another blade flew towards his rib cage, and another further down, aimed to cut off his knees.
His knees bent and he jumped, stepping with one foot on the lower blade aimed at his legs and propelling himself upward, placing the other foot on the sword targeting his chest. Up and up, until he stepped on the head of the vampire who had swung the great sword and flung himself high up in the air, his body twisting together with his swords. His twin blades cut through a vampire’s neck, and Vlad turned in the air and landed on his feet again, his swords raised, dripping blood.
Blood seeped into the rocky ground, nourishing the twisted mushrooms. The Prince stood alone, facing the five remaining attackers. Myra ran until her legs ached, but he was still far away. Sharp stones bruised her feet through the boots. Soft mushrooms burst underneath her steps, mushy and slippery, and she fought for balance. She had almost reached the group when one vampire turned around, looking directly at her.
Myra saw her attacker clearly, every point of her face sharp and distinct. Long, curly dark hair with two narrow blue streaks outlining her round face. A soft jawline, full lips, amused black eyes under thin, shaped eyebrows. The vampire raised her bow and let an arrow fly. Myra saw the projectile fly towards her, fast and certain. She jumped to the side but already knew it would be too late.
But then Vlad was in the air again, twisting and turning, jumping on heads, blades, and drawn stakes. He landed in front of Myra, his heart right in the arrow’s path. He swung his swords into a cross in front of his chest, cutting the arrow in the middle and stopping its flight. Broken splinters fell on the ground, and his right-hand sword shot ahead, straight into the archer’s stomach, while the other blade cut through her neck. Her head rolled on the ground, blue-streaked dark hair spilling over red mushrooms. A flock of cawing black ravens descended, ignoring the raging battle and fighting to get the first pick of dead flesh.
The Prince picked up his blades and walked towards the remaining four attackers, blood drenching his hair, clothes and face and dripping down his swords and boots. A god of wrath and war. The ravens rose from his path and circled above his head. His blades sang a song of battle, of rage and victory, of fallen heroes and triumphant foes. His swords seemed to soak in the enemies’ blood, feeding on it like vampires and growing stronger. They glowed through the dark mists like silver vessels of wrath, cutting through flesh and bone. Three more heads rolled down to feed the twisted mushrooms and starved vultures.
Only one vampire remained, clothes torn and blood-soaked and eyes filled with rage. His blades moved with a strength and wrath to match Vlad’s own. The Prince raised his swords to block a blow, but the other vampire dropped down, a wooden arrow stuck in his heart.
“I had him, you know.” Vlad turned around to glare at their savior.
Tristan beamed at him. “Of course you did.”
He wore white from head to toe, his shirt edged with silver embroidery. The new look made him strangely angelic, pure like freshly fallen snow over the dark battlefield. The only thing that marred his pristine appearance was a bright red cut across his upper left arm.
Vlad bent down to pull the wooden arrow out of the body and flung it forward. Out of the corner of her eye, Myra saw a vampire fall.
“Have you seen Armida?” the Prince asked.
“Not since we joined the fight.” Tristan’s smile disappeared. “Look what those pigs did to my shirt!”
Vlad swung his sword, breaking a flying arrow. “My boy, how many times do I need to tell you not to wear your favorite shirts in battle?”
“And how was I supposed to know we would fight?” Tristan complained. “This was supposed to be just another relaxing cloudy day, while the herbivores and the humans did the heavy lifting. This is so unfair.”
Myra glared at him. Her friends had died, and she had no patience for his whining.
“What is unfair?” the Prince asked.
“Why is it always me?” Tristan grumbled. “I am always the one to get the nasty, icky wounds. I am always the one to get undignified human diseases that have me throwing up my own guts. I am always the one to have his blood drunk to the last drop and forced to feed off rats and stink for days! I am sick of being the universe's punching bag.” He swung his sword, decapitating an approaching vampire.
“And you.” Tristan pointed a finger at Vlad, his eyes blazing. “You always get to ride off under the moonlight, your mantle and raven hair waving in the wind, looking cool. And in the rare cases when you do get injured, it’s just a few aesthetically placed scratches, which make you look even more rugged and manly. How is that fair?”
The Prince sighed and fired three arrows at a group of vampires. “All right, then. I promise to get the next major injury coming our way. Would that make you happy?”
“Very much,” Tristan said, ducking to avoid an arrow. “But it has to be a real injury, nasty and ugly, and not one of your manly scratches.”
“Understood,” Vlad said, firing a last arrow before he reached for his swords as another group of attackers swarmed them. “No manly scratches.”
Tristan grabbed Myra and pushed her behind him. Vlad stepped to her other side and swung his blade down. An arm, severed just above the elbow, dropped at Myra’s feet, the pale hand still clutching a stake. Myra stared at the fingers, thin and delicate. A slender silver ring with a white gem around the pinkie. Long nails polished a soft pink.
Myra’s grip around her own dagger tightened and she peered in between her protectors, waiting for an opening to help. But they gave her no chance, blades clashing, parrying, slicing in a blur of movement and blood. Myra felt useless, caught in the middle of this dance of death, not knowing the steps. She exchanged her knife for her gun and fired into the dark mass surrounding them. Her bullet hit something, and a thin spray of blood mixed with all the other blood that flowed around them.
Vlad’s gaze fixed on something in the distance, and without warning, he ran off, disappearing into the thick fog. Myra stared after him. What would make him abandon them? Perhaps his disappearance was not in poor judgment—only a single vampire remained, and Tristan appeared to have no problems finishing her off. But still, this was so unlike the Prince, always overprotective of Tristan, to the point of smothering.
She threw Tristan a last glance, assuring herself that he would be fine, and ran after Vlad. She climbed atop a boulder that gave her a better view. And when she saw what he had seen, her blood ran cold.