Black Fallen (6 page)

Then the swinging and hacking begins.

Steel against steel rings out in the dojo, and I almost cover my ears at the sound
of it. The muscles in both men’s arms tighten, flex, and rip as they swing, clash,
and charge one another. They literally look as if they mean to hack off the other’s
head. It’s amazing to watch. Sweat plasters their hair to their heads, rolls off their
biceps and down their arms. Each makes a fierce grunt as they swing and lunge and
steel collides with steel so fiercely, my insides quiver. In a move so fast I almost
don’t follow it, Tristan flicks his blade at Gawan’s shoulder and nicks him. Gawan,
almost as fast, flicks Tristan on the chin. Both draw blood.

In a chamber filled with vampires.

Eeesh.

My gaze immediately shoots over to the one vampire I least trust to control himself
around spontaneous bloodletting: Victorian Arcos.

A slow grin lifts his lips. One dark eyebrow rises.

The clamoring of steel drags my attention back to Tristan and Gawan. I study their
steps, their movements, and I can’t help but notice how graceful such large men can
be. I know I’m witnessing an ancient art of combat—actually accomplished in ancient
times—at work.

It’s beyond breathtaking.

Finally, the two warriors are pressed close, face-to-face, their blades pushed against
each other. They’re both breathing hard, but not nearly as raggedly as I would expect
after all that combat. Then, with his free hand, Tristan punches Gawan in the head.

In. The. Head.

Gawan lets out what can only be a string of weird, unintelligible medieval curses,
rears back the hilt of his sword, and cocks Tristan in the jaw.

Godalmightydamn.

“Halt!” Jake yells and steps in probably just before the two get ready to throw down
on the floor and wrestle, or just plain beat the crap out of each other. “Enough.
Top form as always, Dreadmoor. Grimm, you’ve still got it. Simply amazing.”

Tristan wipes his brow with his forearm. “’Tisn’t as easy as it once was, I fear,”
he says. “Whilst I have an interesting past, I’m one hundred percent mortal now.”
He flicked a hank of his hair. “I vow I saw a gray hair yesterday morn.”

“You know I can change that for you,” Jake says, grinning. “If you wish.”

Tristan frowns. “Keep your fangs far from me, Andorra. I’ve existed longer than you,
my boy, and I look forward to growing old with my bride.”

I like hearing that come from Tristan.

Over the next few hours, we remain in our original pairs and practice stance, movement,
and thrusts. It’s a lot more involved than leaping, climbing up a newling’s back,
and plunging a dirk into its heart. Of course, the sparring probably won’t be all
that necessary.

We only have to take off their heads. That’s it.

We don’t have much time for practicing. And we still have to learn our way around
old Edinburgh so we can actually hunt them.

“Damn me. Can we sup now?” Tristan bellows over the dojo. “I vow my gullet is empty.
Andorra!”

Jake laughs. “Aye. Just for you, Dreadmoor.”

Tristan gives a satisfactory nod. “Appreciated.”

“Your markings are interesting,” a voice says from behind.

I turn and find Gawan standing there, his perceptive brown eyes taking in my exposed,
inked arms. I shrug and smile, then incline my head toward him. “Yours are pretty
intense, too,” I say. I draw a little closer, my eyes peering at the finely detailed
black marks. “Jake tells me they represent deaths in battle,” I say. “But what are
they?”

“At one time, marks of valor,” Gawan answers. “Now they’re naught but reminders of
a time I’d rather scrape from my past.”

“That bad, huh?” I say, and stare at a particularly fascinating mark. “No disrespect,
Gawan, but these symbols are beautiful.” I lightly finger one on his shoulder.

And that’s all it takes.

That simple grazed touch of my finger pad to his shoulder.

For the third time since arriving in Scotland, it happens. A wave of nausea washes
over me and vertigo sends me spinning, turning head over heel, and shadows fall over
me until I’m engulfed in blackness.

I’m now Gawan. It’s the time of the Crusades. I sacrifice my life for an enemy’s young
son. I’m granted an earthbound life as a guardian angel . . . life flashes in frames,
faster and faster, up until the present . . . Until Ellie . . .

“Riley?”

Eli’s voice pulls me from the dark mist. His hand is there against my back. His body
is close. My vision comes into focus on his face, which is looking quizzically back
at me. Gawan is next to him, his profound stare boring into mine.

“You were just saying how interesting that particular mark was,” Gawan says. “’Tis
strange that you noticed it first. ’Twas my first mark.”

I look at Gawan. I glance at Eli. The rest of the team is hanging out, just talking.
Everyone is pretty much in the same spot as when I swirled out of control and into
Gawan’s past.

Had it happened that fast? Mere seconds?

At least I didn’t hit the floor this time.

“The symbols are fascinating artwork,” I say to Gawan.

“’Twas fine craftsmanship indeed,” he answers. Then, he studies me. “Andorra told
Dreadmoor and myself of your abilities. Did you see thusly into my past? Just now?”

I nod. “Yes.” I cock my head, remembering everything I’d seen. “The girl. Ellie? Was
she dead?”

A slight smile touches Gawan’s lips. “She is now my wife, but aye, she was more . . .
in betwixt, as we say. Not quite dead. Not quite alive, either.” He looks at me. “I’ll
tell you all about it soon enough.”

Now that I know Gawan’s past, or at least a small piece of it, I find him to be more
than curious. There’s something else about him that strikes me. He’s more than just
an ex-warlord and sword-swinging badass Crusader from the twelfth century. He’s more
than a warrior once proud of how many men he’d killed. There’s something about him
that wasn’t fully revealed to me in the vision, and is teasing at the edge of my consciousness.

I just can’t place my finger on it.

Maybe I should start wearing long gloves? Seems I can’t even graze someone’s skin
without jumping into a portion of their lives. At the very least I need to learn control.

“Let’s clean up and meet downstairs in half an hour,” Jake says. He starts for the
door. “Dreadmoor, Grimm,” he calls, “this way.”

With a nod, Gawan follows Jake and Tristan out of the dojo. Eli kisses the top of
my head. “We should hurry,” he says. “I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”

I link my fingers through Eli’s and we move toward the doorway. A spark of excitement
rushes through me at the thought of learning my way around the streets of old Edinburgh,
the catacombs, the narrow alleys.

And bringing down the Fallen as soon as damn possible.

I’d like to go ahead and return to some sort of normal life.

I glance at Eli. One brow is raised.

Maybe that won’t happen for some time.

Part Five

CITY OF THE DEAD

‘Tis now t
he very witching time of night,

when churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out

Contagion to this world.

—William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

Aye, this lass is by far the most intr
iguing of Andorra���s pack of misfits. Riley Poe. I vow she’ll give the Fallen a run
for their coin. Makes me want to stay and join the team, although I know my bride,
Andrea, would no doubt clout my ears for doing so.

—Tristan de Barre, of Dreadmoor Keep

“O
h, hell. Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you guys downstairs,” I say to Eli, just as
we start to leave our room. Noah’s at the doorway, waiting. “What’s wrong? Forget
your purse?”

Idiot knows I don’t carry a purse. Not that there’s anything wrong with purses; there’s
just no room on my person. Not while I’m lugging a sword.

Our task for tonight: conceal a sword while maneuvering through the fishbone streets
of Edinburgh.

“Where’s
your
purse?” I throw at Noah. He grins and shrugs.

Eli kisses my nose. “See you downstairs, then.”

I love the way his blue eyes take on a dark shine when he looks at me.

“I think I’m gonna throw up now,” Noah says, then turns and walks off.

Eli joins him. Funny how normal a pair of vampires can be.

I turn back to our room. Hurrying inside, I cross over to my duffel—I haven’t even
unpacked it yet—and find the concealed leather sheath containing a silver dirk. I’m
wearing a snug black long-sleeved Under Armour shirt that clings to my body. I assemble
the thin leather straps of my holster—thinner than a Victoria’s Secret bra strap—adjust
it over my shoulders and around my waist, and slip my sheathed dirk inside. I grab
the black, ankle-length oiled canvas coat, which will completely hide the sheath,
dirk, and sword, and turn to leave.

I noticed you the moment you set foot in Edinburgh. And I’m completely and irrevocably
intrigued.

Adrenaline surges through me and I snap my head around. I search the room. There’s
no one around. Of course there’s not. The voice just formed in my head.

So who the hell is it?

Aye, in time we shall meet. And I look forward to it, Riley Poe. This changes things,
you know. You being here. It changes . . . everything.

“Who are you?” I ask out loud. “Don’t be shy. Give up a name.”

Ah, if only I could. We’ll meet soon enough. Then you’ll know more than my name. Until . . .

I know the voice is now gone. I can no longer feel it residing in my mind. I have
no idea where it came from, but I know it’s not someone on the team. Is it another
vampire lurking in the city? Another otherbeing? One of the Fallen? The voice is almost
familiar. Almost, but not quite. All I know is that it leaves within me a quiver in
its wake.

Just as I jog through the doorway, I jerk to a stop. A sensation of dread fills me.
I glance behind me, look into the gloom of my room, and see nothing there but long,
stretching shadows and furniture. The moment I turn back around, she’s there. She
wasn’t seconds before. Standing just on the other side of the threshold is a young
girl. Black hair. Black dress. Black stockings. Black shoes. Her skin is pasty white,
and large dark eyes stare at me.

For a moment or two, I’m paralyzed. I can’t even speak. Despite being surrounded by
otherbeings on a daily basis, this one feels different.

With mouth wide open and distorted, as if releasing a silent, strangled scream, the
strange little girl throws herself straight at me.
Through me.

My body jerks, and I gasp. I’m filled with icy cold. Not a cool draft on my skin,
but freezing cold
inside
. Like it sifts through my skin, freezes my blood, and scrapes my bones. I shiver
and spin around.

She’s gone. Only the eerie shadows in my room remain. I blink several times.

“What’s wrong?” Victorian says behind me.

I turn toward him. I didn’t even notice him approaching me. “I think,” I say, glancing
around. “I swear I think I just saw a ghost,” I say. “That, or this place is just
getting to me. This creepy old house totally gives me the freaking willies. Let’s
get the hell out of here.” I head out and shut the door behind me.

“What’s a willie?” he asks.

With a sideways, mocking glare, I shake my head. “Nothing, Vic.”

“I want to know in case I have them myself,” he pushes.

I can’t help but laugh. We hit the steps and I jog down, Vic right beside me. “You
know,” I explain. “A creepy-crawly feeling, like under your skin. Your hair stands
up on your neck? Goose bumps?” By the blank look on Victorian’s face, I can tell he’s
never experienced the feeling.

“Probably because I’m usually the cause of the feeling,” Vic says.

I roll my eyes. He’s probably right.

At the bottom of the steps, the others gather. Twelve of us in all, dressed in various
shades of black and gray we look like a funeral procession. I turn my attention to
Jake.

“We’ll break into three groups and take separate directions,” Jake says, then explains.
“I think a group as large as ours walking together would cause unwanted notice.”

“Sir,” Peter says as he emerges from the sitting room. “You may wish to see this.”
He shakes his head. “Horrible.”

Jake, Gabriel, and Darius lead the way to the sitting room, and we all follow. I look
at Eli, who merely shrugs. A large flat-screen television on mute takes up a good
portion of one wall.

“Turn it up, Peter,” Jake asks.

Peter unmutes the TV, and immediately a blast of sirens echoes through the room. A
scene of an apartment building and a reporter standing on the sidewalk in front of
the entrance. Lights from the fire and police vehicles flash across his face. “There
appears to be nothing else burned, save the victim,” the reporter says, and points
to the building behind him. “The victim’s name is being withheld until the next of
kin is properly notified, but its been reported that, nothing else seems to be charred
except the body.” He looks at the camera. “Human self-combustion? What else could
cause such an atrocity?” The reporter turns away. “This is horrific. I am positive
the authorities will have answers soon.”

“I recognize the building. It’s in the flats close to St. Giles’. Lets go check it
out,” Jake says.

“Why?” I ask. “What do you think it is?”

“I canna say,” Jake answers. “For now, we overlook nothing. Could just be a junkie
who lit himself up huffing the wrong can of aerosol.”

I get that. Druggies do crazy shit.

“The layout of old Edinburgh is verra simple,” Gabriel says, turning to face us. Eyes
scan the team. “Think of the Royal Mile as a fishbone. At the head of the spine, the
castle. At the tail, the Palace of Holyroodhouse and Scottish Parliament”—he inclines
his head—“just down the way. And all the tiny fish ribs are the tightly knit closes
and wynds in between. As you might’ve noticed as you approached the Crescent, we are
along one such wynd. We’ll get to the flats if we go onto Canongate and turn right.
I will lead a group. Jake and Darius will head up the other two groups. We can all
come together and check out the accident. Any questions?”

I don’t have any, but I think that’s the most I’ve heard Gabriel speak. Ever.

“Right. Let’s go,” Jake says, heading toward the entryway. Only then do I see the
swords and scabbards leaning against the wall. Three are notably smaller than the
others.
Chic blades.
“Each of you grab a blade, strap on the scabbard, and practice concealing as you
move through the city.” Jakes says with a sly grin. “It won’t be as easy at you think.
And, yes”—he looks at me—“the slighter ones are for the ladies.”

Within minutes, we’re all geared up. We split into groups, and I’m with Jake, Tristan,
and Eli. The moment I step over the threshold, I feel it. The only way I can describe
the sensation is like a hot, wet death shroud pulled over my face and suffocating
me. I feel it everywhere. My eyes dart to the corners of the shadows, the areas illuminated
by the recessed lights of the building, any nook and cranny something could be lurking
in, and I see nothing. I don’t care if the Black Fallen are possibly, hopefully still
recovering. Their presence lingers in the air like a heavy fog. I don’t like it. Not
one damn bit.

Eli’s hand slips inside my coat and around my waist. I glance up at him, and in his
eyes I find complete understanding. I lean into him, feel his hard chest close to
my cheek, and it comforts me. I know—sounds pretty girly. Love does that to a person,
I guess.

Eli squeezes me and kisses the top of my head.
You look endearing with that sword strapped to your side. Turns me on.

I elbow him in the ribs.
What doesn’t turn you on?

Eli’s smile is predatory. I like that.

Outside the Crescent, darkness has fallen. The air is crisp, and the sound of the
fountain echoes against the aged stone walls around us. A tall lamp near the edge
of the Crescent casts a light over the courtyard, causing the shadows to creep and
stretch over the angel in the fountain. Damn, that is one creepy-ass statue. The weathered
stone, with its decayed chips and discoloration, leaves me unsettled inside. I’m not
sure what the death-shroud feeling was, but I know I’ll find out sooner rather than
later.

Sounds of traffic aren’t far away. I strain to hear the noise of the city, the drone
of thousands of people talking at once. I tune in deeper and distinguish conversation
on the street, just outside the Crescent. People walking by. Young people heading
to Niddry’s Pub. I’m going to have to work on deciphering the Scottish accent, because
it’s pretty heavy. Hard to make out.

“Let’s go,” Jake says, and we all begin walking toward the gates of the Crescent.
Darius takes his group first and heads up Canongate. A minute passes, then Gabriel
leaves with his group. They also turn right on Canongate but cross to the opposite
side of the street. They all eventually fade into the crowd, which is a little thinner
here. Farther up the Royal Mile, there’s heavy foot traffic. Lots of activity.

“If we separate, just remember that Royal Mile, High Street, and Canongate are all
in one line,” Jake says. “And the Crescent is closest to the tail of the fishbone.
If anything should happen—anything otherworldly—your best bet is to head straight
to St. Giles’. Unless you want to cause a scene on High Street. Your choice.”

I give a nod and adjust the weight of the sword strapped to my hip. “How in Hell are
we ever supposed to run with this thing?” I ask.

Tristan, his face cast in half shadows, smiles. “Walk first, lady. Get used to steel
on your person. In time, it will feel as if it is part of your body.”

I look at him. “Women don’t think about their
body
the way men do, Dreadmoor,” I answer. I shift the blade again, and Tristan’s lips
twitch. “But I’ll try.”

Peter emerges from the side of the Crescent, and with a spry walk, approaches. Still
wearing that plaid golfer’s hat. “Shall I close and lock the gates behind you?” he
asks Jake.

“Aye, Peter,” Jake says. “And keep your mobile with you at all times,” he tells the
older man. “Just in case.”

In case of
what
?

“Will do, Master Jake,” old Peter says.

Now we’re on Canongate, walking two by two on the sidewalk. Eli and I follow Jake
and Tristan at a leisurely pace. Just out of Tolbooth Wynd is Tolbooth Tavern. I may
hit that on the way back. We pass several storefronts—Carson Clark Gallery, an antique
map store with several cool prints framed and displayed. A whiskey shop, a few cafés,
a kilt maker, a woolen shop. Part of me seriously wishes I were nothing more than
a tourist, browsing stores and cramming delicious food in my mouth. Buying postcards.

Not gonna happen. Not on this trip.

The farther up we ascend the Royal Mile, the denser the sidewalk becomes with people.
I get a few curious looks at the ink on my cheek, but for the most part nothing obnoxious.
The steel strapped to my side bounces with each step, and I shove a hand in my coat
pocket to brace the sword against my thigh. It’s already becoming easier to move with
it. Amazing.

I notice everyone around me. I hear them whispering, making idle chatter inside pubs,
utensils clacking against plates as they eat. Laughter. Normal stuff. We move through
the night, and the streetlights fall over us. Shadows lengthen as we walk.

“Look,” Eli says, and points.

Way up on the craggy hill, as if it carved out of the rock itself, is Edinburgh Castle.
It’s lit up, and glows like a beacon over the aged city. “Pretty cool,” I answer,
and truly it is. Different from Julian Arcos’s castle in the Carpathians, yet the
architecture is just as breathtaking.

Ahead, several police cars and an ambulance are parked outside of a row of flats.
A news truck sits outside.

“The combustion,” I say to Eli. “I can smell the charred flesh from here.”

“As can I,” Eli answers. “Sure you want to go?”

I look at my fiancé and smile. “No, not really. But since I’ve hacked off several
newlings’ heads, I am forcing myself not to be squeamish. I need to see it. Helps
me understand what we’re up against.”

“That’s the spirit, girl,” Tristan says over his shoulder. “A true warrior.”

“I’ll clear a path,” Jake says.

And by that I know he means he’ll use his power of suggestion to make all the police
and reporters look the other way as we go inside.

Sure enough, the reporter we saw on TV glances once at us, then turns and heads to
his truck. The police all do the same. Jake, Tristan, Eli, and I walk straight through
the apartment building and to the victim.

The scene is far from pretty. The apartment door is ajar, and the pungent scent of
burnt human flesh permeates the hallway. You don’t have to have special powers to
smell that. Not this close. Jake enters first, followed by Tristan, then Eli, then
me.

“By Christ’s blood,” Tristan mutters. My eyes follow his to a pile of ash and bone,
with two curiously unburned legs, heaped in the seat of a lazyboy chair. The TV is
on. Smoke smolders from the pile of ash that used to be a human being.