9.

[this chapter is really short -- i was getting serious writer's block and just had to pound through it to get to the event that i wanted.  in the future i will edit it and make it better!]

The instant the sun disappears behind the buildings, I’m up, out of bed and the cold-yet-satisfying arms of Misha, my new vampire/mistress, and into the shower, where I wash and laboriously brush and floss my fangs until they are sparkling clean.  Tonight’s wardrobe is black, form fitting but loose enough to move around in, and with many straps to hold knives and swords.  Tonight is a fight night.

Jason and the zombie fortress is a long term goal.  Tonight we’re hunting werewolves.

++

Oscar has beefed up security on the safehouse, and has placed the clans in the area “under alert” of suspicious vamp activity.  He and I are driving into the city, where it has been reported that several vamps have been causing a bit of havoc.  We both immediately assume it’s some crazy Rohrsach extremists attacking humans.  A call has been made for all voluntary shapeshifters (as in, werewolves who can become werewolves when they want) to get in there too.

“This will probably be front page news tomorrow,” Oscar says as we head into the city.

++

When we get out of the car is when we realize we’ve been ambushed.

The scene is Central Park.  I count twenty werewolves on the street, heading into the park.  There is already a ruckus going on deep in the park ... you can hear the fighting from this far away.  There are a couple of actual wolves heading into the melee, teeth bared, eyes wide.  I am reminded of those fateful nights, moon in bloom, my clothes ripping off of my body, snout extending, fur growing, howling in pain and ecstasy at the same time.  The transformation is sometimes the greatest part.

I suddenly have a craving for raw meat as we rush into the scene.  Werewolves and vamps, despite our mutual hatred, share one code of ethics – no firearms.  No guns, no bombs, only the ancient weapons our ancestors fought with for thousands of years.  At my side is a rapier – I was a fencer in high school and college.  Oscar wields an enormous broadsword, strapped to his back.  Around our waists are belts of stakes and holy water.

I have never been in a turf war before and it’s exhilarating.  In Idaho you’re lucky if you see any vamps or wolves within the entire state (well, the wolves are in the mountains, but they are quiet and keep to themselves, like I did).  And when I was enlisted I fought primarily against zombies in the War.  But this ... this is rivalry personified.

Our blades were doused with holy water before we arrived.  We wear special garlic ointment on our bodies to disparage bites.  They have blades covered in silver, and wolfsbane on their belts.

The New York Police Department sits idly by, totally afraid to intervene.

The hunt is on.

++

Swords clang and clatter, people scream, uber-wolves scurry into the virtual forest of Central Park.  For some reason it’s entirely too warm out here, as though the fight is causing the entire area to heat up.  The trees move by the sheer movement of opponents.

Oscar and I dip behind a long row of bushes.  Oscar is getting ready for his transformation to uber-wolf, and thus is completely ignoring me and settling into some ritual chanting to help calm him down.  So I take off, on the outskirts of two major skirmishes.  The first, to my left, is a full on brawl between several vampires and werewolves, clawing and scratching and attempting to bite.  A couple of persons – I can’t tell if they’re vamp or wolf – lie on the ground, some panting, others clearly dead.

To the right is a more formal swordfight between a tall, elegant looking vamp and a tall, elegant looking werewolf, both darting in and out, in perfect fencing form, along a small paved pathway as chaos erupts all around them.  Their technique is impeccable, and as they jab and parry, you can see the admiration for each other in their faces.  Two star-cross’d fencers, apparently.

I dash into the midst of things, quickly stabbing an oncoming vamp, his body suddenly consumed by fire from the inside as my holy water-blessed sword makes contact with his undead heart.  The ground is littered with ashes and bone chunks from previous vamps who have been killed in similar ways.

I strike down two other vamps, both with rapid slashing moves from my rapier, before finding myself in the middle of the action.  Swords, maces, someone shooting arrows – it’s like dropping into a medieval film all of a sudden.  Except in this film, in the distance, are the anachronistic police, shouting in their megaphones for us to stop what we’re doing.

++

My blade of choice is the medieval longsword.  I would consider myself a swiper, rather than a stabber.  Most vampires prefer this arrangement since it’s easy to kill a werewolf with a quick swipe of a silver-plated longsword, and not as easy to stab him with a fencing type sword.  There are traditionalists, mostly thousand year old vamps, who prefer the thrill of an actual duel, but not very many werewolves, let alone humans, know how to duel these days anyway.

Currently I am in a tree, watching the momentum, deciding the right time to leap in and make my presence known.  Truthfully, I could kill half of these werewolves in a matter of minutes – my training has prepared me for such an event – but tonight is a hunt in the classic English style: more style than substance.  Some wolves are brawling with vampires, while others take a more elegant route, bringing sabres and foils with which to fence.  More duelers than I thought, apparently.  But very little killing.  Just a show of strength, of numbers, of how we get things done.

This fight was mainly Everett’s idea, as a way to determine the strength of the wolf clans in the City before we made our way to Jason’s compound.  News travels fast in a world powered by the information superhighway, and we knew our info about Jason’s potential mortality would be leaked to every knowledgeable source in the country, if not in the world.

I think the wolves understand this too, though some, eager for a quick vampire kill, now lay dead on the grass in Central Park.  Others, on the fringes, look wholly unsure of what to do, this probably being their first turf war.

The longsword is sheathed on my back, and to my sides are two swords – on the left, an epee, given to me by my swordsmaster in Hunter training, used in many a duel, mostly with other vampires more than werewolves, and on the right, a dirk, a couple of inches longer than a traditional dagger, given to me by Everett following my ascension into vampirehood.  I also have a series of throwing knives strapped to my thighs.  They’re more for look than anything else.

Standing in this tree, surveying the scene, trying to find a werewolf who has such an affinity with fencing as I do, I finally lay eyes  on one, tall, around my age, his face and body covered in shadows from the trees, but his hand clutching a rapier – an excellent dueling weapon.  He is one of the wolves unsure of himself, standing outside the bout.  Farther away, Oscar Ritter, famed werewolf and cultural icon, transforms into his wolf form, complete with ritual tearing of clothes, pain, agony, howling and, eventually, a big furry beast that launches himself into the middle of a brawl to my right.  He grabs a young vampire by the throat, hurling him towards a tree – an action that will likely hurt the vamp, but not kill him.  Oscar knows this is a show off too, and he must love it.

Staring at this young man, I feel a sense of familiarity wash over me, as though I’ve seen him before.  It happens; werewolves all give off the same stench, but his movements, his gait ... it reeks of something familiar.

Oh well.

Unsheathing my epee, leaping from the tree with a grace only I can attest to (me, modest? Hardly), I expect to land lightly on the ground in front of him – and yet do not.  It’s dark down here, much darker than up in the tree where I could see the waxing moonlight and the lights from hundreds of buildings in the vicinity.  Perhaps I misjudged my landing ... I spin around, instinctively raising my epee – and it clangs in contact with this wolf’s rapier, which is pointing right between my eyes, a few inches away.  The man, shrouded in darkness, stands a few feet away.  I grin, as broad as the first time Misha and I really kissed.

“You’re a tricky one,” I say.  He says nothing.

Which makes me grin harder.

++

She says, “You’re a tricky one,” and at that point I’m entirely certain it’s Delia.  My heart beats out of its chest.  I can feel sudden perspiration on my skin, being licked by a soft breeze from the north.  A lump in my throat.  I know it’s been a long time, but...

Delia steps back, standing in a strange fencing position.  It takes me a moment before I recognize her strong, flat-footed stance: she must’ve been trained as a mensur, or an academic fencer.  Which means she spent time in Germany, or Switzerland, or—

She advances, thrusting her epee quickly at my head.  I dodge just in time, bringing my rapier down and moving my body out of the way.  Then a quick flurry of strikes, me light on my feet, her solid and unmoving.  She exudes control, but in just two minutes of dueling I have found her weaknesses, and manage to get her off her solid stance, backing her up with a couple of quick ripostes that startle and confuse her.  She hasn’t been fencing as long as I have.

When she smiled so wickedly, I saw the fangs ... I had heard stories, unwarranted until now.  And she doesn’t recognize me, or can’t see me in the darkness.  I can see her, eyesight heightened with lycanthropy.  When she does recognize me, will she stop fighting, or will she fight harder?

I thrust inside low, toward her right leg, causing her to jerk her knees backward and parry by swinging the epee clockwise and down.  She narrowly misses getting stuck in the leg.  She looks up at me after the thrust, says, “You’re good,” in a breathy tone that indicates that she’s getting tired.  A placebo effect, of course – no vampires get “tired” – which means she’s only been a vampire for a few years.  She seems to notice this as soon as I do, taking a step back and putting a hand on her chest.  Her breath disappears, and soon she is back in en garde position.

We duel for quite a while, me pretending to be slightly worse than I truly am, so as to prolong the battle and make Delia not look as bad.  Around us the fight continues, thought it has become more of a grand wrestling match at this point.  I catch a glimpse of Oscar, in wolf form, grappling with a large, tough looking vampire.  I see what looks like a broad smile on Oscar’s face, like a smile of pride, or of enjoying the moment.  It’s not so loud, and the cops are all but gone from the scene.  It’s become a pissing contest at this point.

After a few parries, a few lunges, and even a semi-successful prise de fer which almost knocks the rapier out of my hand, I finally manage to push Delia back to the edge of the park and nearly onto the street.  The trees are gone, and she is flailing wildly, and I am gracefully parrying, pushing her back against a row of bushes.  Then, she makes an frustrated mistake, lunging so hard at me that I neatly step aside, and she goes tumbling onto the grass.

She stands, pissed, brushing off grass and dirt, turns, sees me with the moonlight and city light against my face – and her jaw drops.

++

Oh my God.  It’s Samuel.  My first love.