Dark Queen (Jane Yellowrock #12)

I raced the rest of the way to the third floor.

Sal and Del stepped forward. Sal was a behemoth of a woman, broad and tall and muscular, her two feet of hair braided into a long column and wrapped in leather at her back, the hair-sheath reminiscent of a binding on a horse’s tail. Her fighting leathers were old and scored and torn. Del was dressed in golden leathers smeared with the blood of previous opponents, matches I hadn’t witnessed. I’d seen Del in a skirmish and sparring, but never in combat.

The bell chimed. My heart lurched.

Del dashed forward, her swords circling, cut, cut, cut, cut. Blood flowed, steel clashed. Del’s opponent dropped to one knee, bleeding from two head wounds, a hank of scalp and hair on the floor. I started to shout encouragement. But Salvatrice dropped her left sword. Before it landed, she pulled a small blade. Stabbed up. Into Del’s body. Catching her at the unprotected spot where thigh armor met abdominal armor plate. Sal’s sword clanged to the floor.

Del made a small sound of surprise, like, “Oh.” She stumbled.

Salvatrice rose to her feet, stepping closer to Del. Drawing the blade up Del’s side, along the protective plate, through her body. Scarlet pumped over Salvatrice’s hand, to her elbow. Splatted hard on the wood outside of the octagonal. Salvatrice twisted the blade to the side and across, a move that cut through bowel, kidneys, liver. And descending aorta.

I could hear the sound of things inside of Del tearing, separating. “Oh,” she said again. Del fell, her knees and hips going limp. She landed on the wood floor, Salvatrice falling with her, in a languid motion. Removing the blade with an upward twist.

Sal stood, her blade dripping.

Brian said, “Results of this duel are acceptable to the Onorios.”

How could they be acceptable?

“This round to Titus Flavius Vespasianus,” Sabina said, as if unperturbed at the death. “Has Leo’s primo signed papers to be turned?”

Dacy raced forward, her face blanched whiter than the moon through the windows. “I will not lose my daughter. I decide for her.” Dacy dropped to the floor, an ungainly motion for a vamp, and ripped her own lower arms lengthwise, to increase bleeding. Placed one wrist to her daughter’s mouth, the other deep inside Del’s body. But Del didn’t drink. Didn’t swallow. After two long minutes, Dacy rose to her feet and turned her back on Del, bloody tears streaking her face. She said, “Take Adelaide to my bed.” And the heir of Clan Shaddock walked down the stairs as her people rushed to wrap Del’s body in bloody sheets and carry her down.

I was certain I wasn’t breathing. Certain that my heart wasn’t beating. Del was my friend. Had been my friend. Del was dead. Or could Leo’s healing blood potion save her? How good was it?

Sabina said, “Aloisio Esposito, tercero of the Europeans, has challenged Pellissier’s secundo heir, Grégoire. The bout will begin in five minutes, to allow time for blood removal. This will be the last bout of night one of the Sangre Duello.”

I knew about Aloisio. This was going to be bad.

I slid unnoticed into the shadow of one of the wood-beam roof supports. I reached up and gripped the two rubies and the gold nugget together. My other hand went into a pocket to grip the Glob, though I didn’t remember putting it away. I prayed a wordless prayer, begging. Did God really hear the ones who fell away? I had personally fouled a baptismal pool full of holy water. Would he hear the prayer of someone with so much blood on her hands? Surely it was God that had sent Hayyel to me. Unless the angel was hanging around my life to exact heavenly justice on me at some predetermined point. I didn’t know, and I feared that my faith had grown thin and worn and was full of holes.



* * *



? ? ?

We stood on the sand.

Aloisio Esposito, tercero to Titus, or, as some vamps called it, troisième, was third in line to the crown of the Europeans, the current Master of the Cities of Madrid, Barcelona, Lisbon, Marrakesh, Casablanca, and the Balearic Islands—basically Spain, Portugal, and Morocco. He’d been fighting for centuries, had a head count of more than a thousand names—humans and vamps—and he was nearly as old as his emperor. Aloisio was not a pretty vamp; his face was scarred by pre-turning sword cuts and his back was rumored to be marked by the scars of whip lashings. But he had vibrant, caramel-colored eyes and he was tall and slender as a reed, with well-defined shoulders and a tapering back. He walked like a racehorse, with a long, rangy stride and a slight bounce in his step. Aloisio Esposito had not lost a first-blood bout in centuries. He hadn’t lost a death match in, well, ever.

Sabina did not announce anything or ask about weapons. She said nothing as they approached the central octagonal.

Grégoire and Aloisio were both wearing black, their matte fighting leathers new and well armored. The death bell rang, the note pure and clean and deadly.

The attacks were so fast I could hardly see the movement of the blades, glistening in the dim glow of the lights mounted above us. They clanged, clanked, shushed as blade slid upon blade. Blood flew in scarlet drops. Grégoire’s hair was stained scarlet. Aloisio’s neck was bleeding. Just above it, his earlobe was nicked and missing a wedge. Step, step, step, feet silent in this dance of death.

Weapons a blur.

I wasn’t breathing. The Glob flashed with a blistering heat.

In the same instant there was movement in my peripheral vision. Flashing.

I dropped. The blade thunked into the pillar above me, right where my eyes had been. Perched on my toes, I whirled. No one was there. Looked back to the duel. It was even bloodier. Splatters flying in the air. Splatters on the sand. One landed on my face, cold vamp blood.

I grunted, my eyes still whipping around the space, away from the duel, which was in its seventh second, searching for anyone who looked wrong, who wasn’t watching the fight with enough attention, or with too much attention. No one looked out of place or guilty. My eyes slid to the side, refusing to focus. And I realized someone was beneath an obfuscation spell. Bancym M’lareil? I pulled on Beast-sight and the rubies heated in my hand. I saw the form of the woman on the far side of the sand, hidden beneath the witch working. Now that I knew where to look, she was slender and muscular, arms akimbo, swords at her sides. I let go of the rubies and she vanished from sight. Had Dominique been using the ruby to keep track of Cym? Yeah. Made sense. Fast thoughts. Fast as the blades.

I glanced at the duel. Eleven seconds.

Our witches were farther back on the sand, not close enough to help. This one had gotten inside the hedge of thorns. Had to be in the moments when the hedge was dropped so we could come and go. She had walked over the outline of the hedge of thorns without Molly seeing her, which meant she had come in with Titus, her witch energies absorbed among the vamps.

A thump sounded. My eyes flew to the battle. Grégoire was on his back. Aloisio stood over him. My heart fell through the sand beneath me.





CHAPTER 19


    It’s Poisoned





Grégoire rolled away, swift as thought. Aloisio bent over. His guts spilled out onto the floor in a bloody, reeking, gagworthy slither. Black and scarlet, like eels and raw meat. Aloisio dropped to his knees. Grégoire rose and whipped his sword in an arc. Aloisio’s head rolled to the side.

Grégoire bowed to Sabina. He was a bloody mess but still standing, his enemy’s intestines in a coil around his ankles.

“Golden,” the camera wolf muttered.