Tyrant's Stars: Parts Three and Four (5 page)

Unexpectedly, the Hunter’s horse sank. Something had dragged it underwater. And D went right with it.

The Nobility—and others with vampire blood—were known to have problems with water. Of particular note was their inability to cross running water. When completely immersed, a dhampir lost almost all of his Noble strength, leaving him with only the power of a normal human being at his disposal.

Even underwater D’s eyesight was perfect. Leaving the saddle of his cyborg horse, he drew his sword.

The woman who appeared from behind the white steed had a long, white robe streaming out behind her like the garb of the celestial maidens. It was the water witch, Lucienne. Although this sorceress had been evaporated by the flames from a torch, she’d apparently survived by fleeing underground.

“So nice of you to come into my country, D!” she said, her voice as sensuous as ever.

However, the right side of her face was melted and her lips were half gone, leaving teeth and gums exposed. Scorched by fire on the ground above, it appeared she hadn’t been healed even after returning to the font of her life.

“You may be invincible on dry land, but you can’t defeat me here. Eventually I’ll tear Count Braujou and Duchess Miranda to bits in my world, too. But you shall be the first.”

A white piece of fabric closed on D. Lucienne had pulled it from her clothing. No doubt her raiment was composed of many such pieces stitched together.

D swung his sword. The fabric didn’t fall apart. It wrapped gently around the blade, robbing it of its cutting edge.

Lucienne laughed seductively. Her clothing had already broken down into a number of strips that lingered around her naked form as if loath to leave her. Her pale female physique had retained its perfect beauty, and even half-melted, her face had lost none of its former loveliness, giving this sorceress an allure beyond compare.

Her right hand pointed at D. Cloth flowed over and latched onto his shoulder, upper arm, and wrist, winding around D from the right shoulder down to the waist. His sword arm was restricted. Another strip wrapped around his throat like a pale arm.

Bubbles rose from D’s mouth. His air had run out.

Through the cloth she used to strangle him, Lucienne could feel the strength swiftly ebbing from D’s form. Five millennia earlier, she’d fought a number of dhampirs. She’d slain all of them. This young man was a tougher opponent than they had been; she’d have to choke him twice as hard.

All signs of life had already left D. Lucienne laughed maliciously as she knifed through the water toward the Hunter. Just to be sure, she would use her special claws to tear the flesh from his bones. The sword D gripped didn’t concern her. Who would’ve expected it to hack through her from the top of her head all the way down to her cleavage?

Writhing in intense pain, Lucienne found her field of vision tinged with red.

Seeing that the water witch had dissolved into the black fluid streaming past him, D kicked up through the water. His face broke the surface, and his lungs took a savage breath of air. Though he was several times as powerful as the average dhampir, it was still difficult for him to go nearly ten minutes without oxygen.

The Hunter had no intention of getting out of the water—Sue and Matthew had gone downstream. In the incessantly gurgling subterranean waterway, D caught his breath as he was swept along.

Upon a strike to his cheek, Matthew opened his eyes. A man he didn’t recognize was peering down at him. Without noticing the bluish darkness behind the stranger, the boy started coughing violently.

“You have to spit out the water,” the man said. What he said next made Matthew’s coughing stop. “I’m Courbet the Missionary. One of Valcua’s seven.”

As Matthew turned to look in horror, his face was like that of a waterlogged corpse.

“I was supposed to haul your little sister out as well, but my singing compatriot is handling that. The current was a bit too strong. At least I snagged you,” he said, grinning at the boy’s ghastly, pale face.

“What are you gonna do to me?” Matthew inquired in a hoarse tone.

“Not a thing. I’ll bring you back to our country.”

“Your country?”

“To Grand Duke Valcua’s country, that is. Your sister will be going there as well, and that fellow who calls himself D, or something like that. Not that I approve.”

Matthew was speechless.

Courbet continued. Apparently the subject was a sore one for him. “No matter how you look at it, the Hunter is our foe. There’s nothing to do but fight him and see who lives and who dies in the end. He should definitely be killed before he gets inside the castle. What can Lord Valcua be thinking?”

Just then, Matthew felt a shadow fall across the sun, and he looked up. What he saw was a night sky tinged with a pale blue that suggested dawn was near. He could make out stars twinkling through the trees.

He felt an enormous presence in that starry sky.

Courbet gasped, “Lord Valcua!”

“I’m not thinking about anything at all. At least, not about anything that concerns the lot of you.”

Matthew instinctively looked around but was unable to pinpoint the source of the voice. It seemed to come from both the highest heavens and the depths of the earth.

“Because of that, I shall give you an order in terms worms like yourselves might comprehend: Kill that human.”

Courbet’s eyes gleamed with surprise as he replied, “Leave it to me, Lord Valcua. I would risk body and soul to do your will.”

Matthew felt the presence vanish. Knowing what fate lay in store for him, he was relieved at first, then horrified.

Courbet stood up. “I suppose the least I can do is let you choose how you’ll die,” the missionary said in a tone that was all murderous intent and mocking sneers. “Would you like to have another go at drowning? You could strangle yourself, slit your own throat, or maybe—”

Matthew leaped up with a shout, charging at Courbet head first. But he was too slow. Dodging to the left, the missionary brought the side of his hand down on Matthew’s neck in a chop.

“You’re too stupid to see when someone’s trying to do you a favor,” Courbet laughed, extending his right arm. Beside him, branches jutted from a tree. Snapping off a relatively straight one with a single twist of his wrist, he held it like a spear as he walked over to where Matthew lay groaning on the ground. “In the service of the grand duke, I’ve done battle with Nobles, but I never used the legendary method against them. Isn’t it ironic that I should first get to try it on a human being?”

Raising the branch with both hands so the jagged break was like a stake, the missionary began to swing it home. But he froze in place. Something had latched onto the end of the branch and stopped it.

D.
⁷
he wondered. Not concerning himself with the branch, Courbet released it and leaped back. There was no one where he’d just been. Icy breath crept across the nape of his neck.

“Wooden stakes really should be saved for the Nobility. Or for their abhorrent servants.”

Behind me again?
the man thought, and he was about to spit a curse when a stake pierced him through the back with feverish speed, running through his heart. Letting out a final breath, Courbet staggered. He tried to take in more air, but his lungs disgorged something else. Fresh blood splattered against the grass at his feet. He took a few more steps, and then turned.

The woman in the white dress possessed the poise and beauty that made it clear at a glance she was a Noble.

“You—you bitch! You’re . . . Miranda . . .”

“That’s
duchess
to you.”

Approaching him without a sound, Miranda grabbed the tip of the branch that protruded from Courbet’s chest and twisted it this way and that. Screams split the darkness, and the blood that sprayed from him stained the duchess’s pale face and breasts a deep red. She possessed a countenance so lovely it would’ve rivaled that of Sotoori-hime, a legendary princess so fair her beauty glowed through her attire. Seeing the duchess lick the blood from her mouth, Matthew felt his mind drifting a million miles away.

“Forgive me ... milord...” Courbet coughed through bloodied lips before he collapsed in the grass and moved no more.

Matthew stared at his savior, dumbfounded. He realized the battle wasn’t over. Back at Lamoa Fortress, D had told him about the powers of Valcua’s assassins. Acting on reflex, he put his right hand in his pants pocket. It closed tightly around the hard objects his fingertips brushed, but he thought to himself,
These probably won’t do much good.

The plastic earplugs were something D had given him back at the fortress to use against Courbet.

“Aren’t you a fine fool,” the duchess said, making no attempt to hide the scorn in her eyes. “Even with that Hunter and the count to protect you, I find you out here in this remote place, all alone, at this hour—you’ve brought this all upon yourself.”

“No . . . it’s not like that. . .” “At any rate, you’ve been saved. I’m a woman, so I’m more calculating than those other two. But sooner or later you’ll have to repay me for this.”

As she spoke, the duchess walked up to Matthew. Her right hand seized the collar of his shirt. Without bending her knees or even bracing her feet, she hoisted Matthew into the air with a single slender limb. Using her left hand to point, she said, “If you go that way, you’ll soon be out of the forest. I must be going now. The dawn is like a death knell.”

And then the pale Noblewoman dissolved into the feeble light, and Matthew collapsed on the spot. There was a dazed look on his face. Though he understood what had transpired, he remained numb. It took a good minute before a human emotion could force its way onto his expressionless face.

The Noble or his assassins would probably be coming for him again. Matthew got up and started walking with leaden steps in the direction the duchess had indicated. Gradually his pace quickened, and before he’d gone ten strides he was running full speed.