Vampire Assassin League Bundle Five - Loneliness

Vampire Assassin League

Loneliness

4 ~ Pack

Jackie Ivie

CHAPTER ONE

They just did not make warriors like they used to. Or whatever they called fighting men in these modern licentious times. Bad guys. Opposing forces. Hordes. Troops. Adversaries. Foes. Enemies.

No. Wait.

That was too harsh. One had to have been in contact with someone in order to call them an enemy. That should be listed in his chivalric code. If not, he’d ponder with adding it...when he returned to his crypt and had nothing better to do. In the meantime, whatever he deemed these combatants, they made lousy warriors and worse knights. They’d probably never even heard of chivalry.

Too bad.
Chivalrous behavior was Wystan’s creed. His motto. His reason for living. His—

Wystan shook his head. Why was he wasting time on such thoughts? So what if chivalry was dead? So was he.

He pulled his sword from Body Number Six.

Oh. Damn. Look there.

He’d nicked a large vein. That was messy. Wystan sidestepped the gush of fluid, coming in spurts that matched tempo with a dying heart. This particular man had barely lasted ten seconds. That’s what came of answering Wystan’s appearance and hissed challenge with an exclamation, followed by a taser hit, and when that didn’t work, bringing out a gun equipped with a silencer. Not one of these men carried a sword. Wasn’t a sword a requirement anymore? When had that changed? And was he really that far behind the times?

Hmm
. They really should be carrying swords.

The ring of steel on steel was bound to bring some notice, and maybe some back-up, and maybe they’d last a bit longer and give a little better fight. Then again, maybe no one thought it necessary. That showed one of two things – either they hadn’t done their research or they were extremely arrogant and self-assured. No back-up in place. No warning system. Nothing but a few armed men spaced a hundred feet or so apart, and each one equipped with silent weaponry. That made it an easy matter to infiltrate deeper and deeper into the abandoned ruin that was called Rockcliffe Castle. Kidnappers should know better than to hold a scared, little, six-year-old girl in a big old gloomy castle and not have some sort of alarm system in place.

Maybe they actually thought the Carlotti patriarch would pay.

Wystan shook his head again. Forget the arrogance. They were apparently very short-sighted. And ill-informed. If you took a Carlotti grandchild from the back of a staged play in what was supposed to be an exclusive,
guarded
school, and then managed to spirit her out of the country in order to hold her for ransom, you should probably have done some homework on contacts and recent history.

The Carlotti family wasn’t paying three-point-six million in ransom money. They preferred to spend that exact amount
on the hit. And they knew exactly who to call. All of which should have clued Wystan in on the lack of chivalry attached to this particular mission.

Damn again.

He didn’t take hits for money. He already had plenty. That’s what came of gaining property during the Wars of the Roses, more of it during the Reformation years, and then constantly assuming the position of his own heir. He was financially solid. Reasonably attractive. Fit. And noble. He even wore the blue-and-silver Honor Garter just above his knee. He only accepted assassinations if there was pride, valor, and gallantry at stake. The fact that these men had taken a little six-year-old was reason enough to kill them. Wystan didn’t need to challenge anyone first. He did so because it was part of his chivalric code.

And they were all failing.

Thus far.

Hmm
. Perhaps they did make warriors like they used to and these bad guys just hadn’t hired any. Then again, Wystan still had eight more chances. He might yet find some warriors in this gang of fourteen; someone of fighting ability...perhaps one assigned to guard a parapet. Or maybe, there would be a warrior prowling the long halls beneath the castle, the ones known for historic vaulted ceilings and massive stone construction. And, surely they’d have a warrior-type posted somewhere near the Great Hall, where puffs of intermittent smoke pointed right to their base of operation.

That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

Just one warrior?

Wystan shifted, making the slightest noise as he moved. He wore a chainmail shirt called a hauberk tonight. It reached to mid-thigh. He’d foresworn the quilted coat worn beneath the chain called a jupon. No need. Temperature wasn’t an issue when one was already dead. He’d donned woolen chausses. The tights had itched when he’d been alive. And even with a ribbed knit waist, they never stayed up well. They had ties on them to attach to a jupon for that reason. He wore armored greaves to protect his lower legs, and his shoulders were protected by leather pieces called
pauldron
. Every bit of metal had been highly polished. If he had a squire, that would be the lad’s job. It was an exacting task, requiring a paste of soot, water, and a hint of candle wax. It was Wystan’s personal concoction. Polishing armor, and especially chainmail, took several nights. That was just getting the paste applied. Then, he’d spend another surfeit of weeks rubbing at each little link, working the paste into the metal. And then he’d buff it with the softest of suede. That way, his attire shone with every movement and in any light condition – even the silvery cast of a wintry night moon coming through any glassless oriel window he passed by.

Like tonight.

He looked a bit over-dressed and medieval, but that was to be expected. He wasn’t changing to modern attire. He didn’t care if he was unstylish. He’d died a knight and meant to stay one. You’d think it would make it easier to see him coming. And the last thing he’d be interested in was looking like the dead man at his feet.

This fellow wore dark trousers, a dark turtleneck sweater, and a darker-toned jacket. He blended in with the floor. And the pool of blood he was now resting in.
Hmm
. That added another dimension. The man at his feet wasn’t just a lousy warrior. He was a massive bleeder, as well. Wystan moved another step back, waiting for the arterial spray to slow. No sense getting his garb dirtied.

And he’d already fed on Body Number One.

Despite any satiation, his canines grew in appreciation of the aroma. The color. The spray of droplets...getting lifted and then dispersed with the slightest of breezes. Wystan shifted to one side to avoid getting squirted with that, as well. He held his sword, tip down, and slid his blade between thumb and two fingers, watched the blood drip off it as he went.

“Halt!”

Wystan spun, the blood at the tip of his sword sent an arc of dark fluid across the stone walls, and then he grinned as a large black bulk came barreling down the corridor toward him. His assailant was backed by another fellow. Oh, good. Wystan was facing two of them.

No. Wait.
A sound behind him got a head swivel and a good view of three more bodies. Ah. They were ambushing.
Excellent
. And he didn’t even have to draw his sword.

Body Seven became the man at his back with the taser strike. Wystan jerked as if it had an effect just before turning his sword backwards and ramming it through the man’s ribcage, where it got stuck. No worries. It gave his swing some ballast as he pulled the sword back over his head in an arc that not only pulled the taser hooks from his back but sent Body Number Seven flying toward what became Body Number Eight. Both men slammed back into the darkness, where they sent the most interesting taser-light show for a bit. Wystan didn’t wait around to watch. They probably packed too much voltage in their stunners. And really. It wasn’t Wystan’s fault that the wires were still live when they collided. The other man who’d approached from the front had pulled his gun. Wystan retaliated by cutting his gun hand off.

Residual muscle spasms sent bullets ricocheting through the hall, adding sound and energy to an already vibrant episode. Wystan deflected more than one with his blade, sending it toward the two behind him. That was even more entertaining. Grunts followed from the two remaining men, announcing gunshot hits. Or not. Wystan didn’t wait to find out. He leapt upward, did an above ground somersault, and landed behind Bodies Numbers Ten and Eleven. Number Ten got his head removed. Number Eleven took off running.

Wystan was snickering as he gave chase. Looks like chivalry was not only dead, it was buried in cowardice. He caught the fellow before he’d gone far and he didn’t even use vampiric power. Wystan simply launched his sword at the fellow’s legs and tripped him. Another moment and he was in front of him. Waiting for the man to stand up. He even put a hand out for an assist. Number Eleven ignored it, and slid to his feet using the rock wall.

“Do you have a sword?” Wystan asked.

“I’ve got something better.”

“Really?”

The man drew a personal-sized sub-machine gun and pointed it at him. Wystan tipped his head slightly as if considering it.

“Ah. A fully automatic assault weapon. Impressive,” he remarked finally.

“And at this range, I can’t miss, Asshole.”

“Well...what are you waiting for then?”

The man’s finger squeezed the trigger, sending a spray of lead into the scene. He didn’t live to see that none of them hit. He was impaled on Wystan’s sword. And then he was sagging to a heap on the floor while Wystan pulled it back out.

“You should have asked for a sword,” Wystan informed the dead body.

Number Eleven must not have used a silencer. Gunfire echoed down the hall before dying out.
Good
. Maybe that would alert the last three as to their imminent peril. And...if he guessed right, he should be closing in on the Great Hall...where they’d built their fire. And where they held their little captive. And...

Oh, damnation. Look at that.
His chainmail was bloodied.

There was nothing for it. He couldn’t rescue a damsel in distress if he was covered in blood. Especially a six-year-old one. Wystan unfastened his
pauldron
and shucked the hauberk, hearing it land in a puddle of chain at his feet. He refastened his shoulder protection. Damn again. He really liked that mail shirt. He made a mental note to retrieve it.

A cry came from somewhere to his left. It wasn’t a frightened hurt cry. It was more the sound of sobbing. From a very young person. And it wasn’t even near the Great Hall. Those bastards had placed their victim in one of Rockcliffe’s towers? Without heat? Or light? That was extremely stupid of them. He wouldn’t even have to mute his attack. Wystan smiled.

Oh
. This was going to be pure pleasure.

The Great Hall of Rockcliffe Castle was known for its ornamental stone roof joists, the span of large, carved stone filigree openings that had once held glass, and a medieval fireplace that was intact. It had a working flue, and a rock chimney that had been reconstructed in the restoration project some Dot-Com millionaire had started at the beginning of this century, before he ran out of funds and ambition. Or both. The kidnappers must not have known that part, either. They’d piled stones into a circle, making an impromptu pit and built their fire in the center of the floor.

They were all around the fire. Silent. As if they weren’t perpetrating a dastardly deed on a cold winter night. Wystan peeked around the corner of a rock-hewn doorway approximately twenty-five feet thick. He’d been right. The final three kidnappers were all there. One was wrapped in an assortment of blankets, sitting atop a stool beside the fire, and coughing occasionally. Another was engrossed in drinking what appeared to be dark wine. And another was whittling away on a stick that had probably been gathered for kindling. They were all unaware and unprepared.

And maybe that wasn’t so odd. Wystan had hyper-senses. Perhaps the gunfire sound from the last man hadn’t been as loud as he’d thought.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

All three started and stood, mouths agape, as Wystan walked in. The stool fell. And then he was facing yet more gun barrels, held in three sets of hands.

“Just who the hell are you?” Blanket-man asked.

Wystan tipped his head in a slight bow. “Sir Wystan Ryn
de
Crecy. And don’t bother with the introduction. You, of course, are the bad guys.”

The drinker chuckled. “Right.”

Blanket-man appeared to be their leader. He shot the drinker a glance that appeared to carry reprimand. They didn’t have much discipline. The drinker smirked.

“What do you want?” Blanket-man asked.

“The girl.”

“What girl?”

“The one in yon tower. So. Before we finish here and I rescue the wee damsel, I really need to know. Does any among you carry a sword?” Wystan lifted his and twisted it so firelight flicked off the blade.

“What the hell for?”

Wystan sighed heavily. “I take it that is a negative. Pity. Allow me to explain. The chivalric code being what it is, if you had carried a sword, I would have enjoined you in battle. And you might actually live a little longer.”

Carving-man fired first. He’d been on Wystan’s left, just inside peripheral view. His first shot went through one side of Wystan’s leather
pauldron
and bit into flesh. The next five missed. That’s what came of aiming while Wystan whipped around and sliced, taking not only the fellow’s head off, but a good section of his shoulder and chest cavity as well. Before the body finished separating, Wystan was airborne, evading bullets as the last two men attempted to follow his movements. He landed right before the drinker, stabbed his sword into the floor in order to grab both the man’s hands and twist them inward. That way, the next rounds got pumped into Drinking-man’s gut and pelvic area.