Chapter Twelve: Where We Left Off
They’d let him sleep. That had been nice. Although, since they were about to send him off to play double-agent with a family of deadly vampires, maybe it hadn’t been nice. Maybe he should have stayed awake to enjoy every moment of his life before the Andrastes snuffed it out.
No, that wouldn’t have worked. He hadn’t really enjoyed consciousness since Archi. In his haste to leave, he’d forgotten to pack any Nepeta Dynatos and now…
Not that it was a problem. It wasn’t affecting him. Well, much. He was jittery, sure, and his temper wasn’t as long as usual. But apart from that. It was like having too much coffee. Not that he could have coffee any more. Or alcohol. Or anything fun. Stupid cat liver. Nepeta Dynatos was the only pleasure left to him.
Clarkson shut his eyes and took several deep breaths. If he could just… Being sent to his death like this, he could have used something to take the edge off. That was all.
Instead, he had to trudge several blocks to the castle. The Team had deposited him far from their sniper’s nest in order to keep its location secret. If it hadn’t been raining he might have dallied, taken in a movie, maybe hit a pub. Not only would it be nice to see the real world, but he was guaranteed to score in a town filled with vampire-philes. And it might take his mind off things.
Instead, the rain belted down on him in loud, fat drops. As a vampire, rain hit him as hail had done back when he’d been human – hard and oppressive, with more weight than it should. He couldn’t move right when he was wet; couldn’t feel the ground with such surety; wasn’t fast enough; couldn’t jump as high. It was like wearing a heavy, freezing jacket.
Additionally, the rain came down so thick that he almost didn’t spot Mitchell following him, then kneeling on the other side of the street. He did well to keep downwind, not that Clarkson could smell much in this wet, but Clarkson’s night vision was too sharp not to spot him or the rifle in Mitchell’s hands, the careful way he raised it… and placed it to his eye…
This wasn’t the plan. What was he doi—
The first bullet pinged on the stone beside his feet. The second bullet would have grazed his arm if Clarkson hadn’t already leapt left.
Rather than ask Mitchell for clarification, Clarkson ran. He was faster on foot than Mitchell and this rain might throw Mitchell’s usually-impeccable aim off a touch.
Clarkson reached the outer portcullis within a few seconds. The gate was shut, as was the pedestrian access to the side, but the guard tower was only fifteen feet up. He leapt the distance and dropped down the other side without breaking stride.
Behind him, Mitchell emerged from the buildings and raised his rifle, so Clarkson ran again. The bridge was a hundred feet long and maybe ten feet wide; not a whole lot of room to dodge if Mitchell started firing aga—
Shit! Which he was!
Clarkson ducked and weaved as bullets chipped the stonework and pinged off the inner portcullis gate. There were no handrails and a fifty foot drop off the side of the bridge, so he didn’t venture too close to the edge, but he also didn’t like the idea of being shot, so he ventured close enough to avoid what Mitchell was spewing his way.
When he reached the inner portcullis – also closed – Clarkson vaulted it and was immediately spun around and slammed onto the ground. He looked up at a snarling face and prominent, pointed, teeth.
“Leander,” Clarkson said. “How’s it going?”
The hulking eldest Andraste patted Clarkson down for weapons then pulled him to his feet. “Move.” There was no love lost between the two of them; Clarkson assumed it was because he was lovin’ most of Leander’s sisters.
Clarkson was led at gunpoint into the main hall, where roaring fires chased away the night’s rain. The dinner table had been set before it in the centre of the room; the Andrastes seated.
“Ah, Clarkson,” said Adonis. “Sneaking around?”
A few steps from the table, Leander said, “He was being shot at. By his own people.”
“Yeah, the dicks,” Clarkson said, wiping himself down. “They bring me here to consult for them, then they’re all ‘He’s a liability’ and ‘We can’t trust him’.”
“Theatrics?” Adonis asked Leander.
“Convincing, if so. The shots came quite close.”
“They didn’t use blanks?”
“To kill me?” Clarkson asked. “No. That wouldn’t work at all.”
Adonis wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid it on his plate, then rose. “Why come here with the world as your plaything?”
“Gee, let me think. The fact that I’m officially dead might cause problems. Also I’m not human and don’t fancy the rest of my life being spent under a microscope. And because we’re, you know, family.”
Adonis huffed. Dignifiedly. How did he manage that? How did he do everything with such a polished air? Centuries of practice, sure, but still… He could insult you with a sound. Whenever Clarkson tried that he sounded like someone was doing the Heimlich on him.
“Family?” asked Adonis. “You were forced on us. You, a creature barely cognizant, have been granted the greatest of lives. You desecrate what we are just by existing. Your allegiance is suspect at best; you outspokenly belittle our beliefs; and yet you come here as if you were always one of us. As if the very few years of your new life grant you that honour.”
It seemed they hadn’t bought the story, despite Mitchell’s added realism. Time to cut and run.
“You want me to go, I can just go,” Clarkson said.
“Yes!” said Clytemnestra. “I can take him back to Archi!”
Adonis stopped the interruption with a glare – another trick Clarkson hadn’t mastered. Everyone just ignored him when he glared. After a while they asked him if he had something in his eye, but that was the extent of his ability to alter the conversation through glances.
“We shall all stay here,” said Adonis, “until the prophecy is complete.”
“But I’m not part of your prophecy,” Clarkson said, “so I might as well go.”
“And if you are with them, you’ll tell them the little you have seen. And if you are not – if you try to disappear into the world – you’ll most likely be discovered and expose us regardless. You cannot be permitted to leave.”
If Adonis added that Clarkson couldn’t be permitted to stay, he’d have to do something. Grabbing Leander’s gun would be the first step. Probably the last, too. Two other Andrastes held rifles. They lacked the surety of Mitchell or Skylar, but it wasn’t hard to point the barrel at the enemy and make them go away.
His only hope was that, although Leander probably had several centuries on him, Clarkson was more familiar with modern weapons.
“You shall stay,” said Adonis. “Clytemnestra, your pet has returned. Lock him in his hutch.”
Clytemnestra groaned. Undignifiedly. Then stomped away from the long wood table without waiting for Clarkson to follow. Leander and his gun stayed where they were. Good. Clarkson could take Clytemnestra; his odds of escape just went up.
As they headed out the back of the hall and into the underground living quarters, Clarkson memorised the layout. The Team could do with the intel, especially if he saw a library. Unfortunately, the castle was, like the manor on Archi, a vast maze of corridors that quickly became impossible to navigate. On Archi, Clarkson had always had a guide; Adonis didn’t trust him not to break something if he was left unsupervised.
“So, the whole family’s gung-ho about this prophecy?” Clarkson asked.
Nessie snorted. “Father and the boys are. And Themis.”
They weren’t all of one accord? Maybe he could find some allies here, someone to help him escape. “So why stay?”
“For father.”
“But they’re about to make war on you.”
Nessie stopped. “I hope not.”
“Yeah, they are.” Clarkson put a hand on her shoulder. “You sure you want to stay?”
“Yes.” She started
walking again. After watching her backside a moment – Three-God it was good – Clarkson followed.
“What’s he threatened you with?” he asked.
He could feel her roll her eyes. “Nothing. It’s not like that. It’s… What do you know of duty?”
“Not a lot. I was a pretty crappy soldier.”
“So your file says,” she muttered. “Father has helped and sheltered us for so long, given us a hope and a faith. It is no small thing to throw away so strong-forged a bond.”
“Even though you may die?” Clarkson asked.
They arrived at a door with a thick iron bolt on the outside and Nessie stared deep into his eyes. “This must happen,” she said. “Father has read the texts many times seeking an alternative. There is none. The demon will fulfil his purpose.”
Clytemnestra pointed Clarkson inside the room. The conversation had taken a sour turn, and now he was being sent into his cell. So much for forging friends. The bed, though dusty, was soft and glorious – a far cry from the creaky wire cot he had expected. Clarkson started removing his soggy black fatigues. That was when he spotted that Clytemnestra had followed him in and shut the door.
“As long as you’re here, you might as well be useful,” she said, slipping the dress off her shoulders.
Clarkson smiled and abandoned all plans of escape.