Legacy in Blood (Book 1 of The Begotten of Old Series) (37 page)

With these words he slammed his paw down on Marisa’s leg – the one he had broken. She almost lost consciousness from the pain.

Leaving Marisa lying on the floor, Arkhan turned to Jan.

“You won’t be creeping away either. Seems your bone is almost pulverized. It really is a night of broken extremities.”

The Mankhus’s eyes gleamed carnivorously.

“
And of culled lives,” he added in an otherworldly voice.

Choose how you will die,
he said to Dalana.
Slowly or very slowly.

Dalana understood what he had in mind. The first choice meant crude, physical force. They would fight like two wild animals. The second choice was for a battle of the minds, a slow and excruciating subjugation of the enemy with the force of one’s own thoughts. Even though the Mankhus was an unsightly monster, he was still Begotten of Old, just like Dalana. And he was offering her the right to choose. He would kill Dalana regardless of the venue. But she would attempt to sell her life for the highest price.

What the hell,
decided Dalana.
Let’s fight – to the end.

“Do me a favor,” she said aloud expressly for Marisa. “Don’t get in my way.”

Dalana got to her feet.

“Arkhan!” she hailed the Mankhus. “You say that my progenitor, the Tengri of the Blood, stood in awe of you? Then I am mightily disappointed with him. I choose the first alternative!”

The monstrosity stretched his lips into a malevolent smile.

“All bets are off!” he declared.

2.

 

Hic et nunc.

Here and now.

 

Begotten of Old, she had existed since time immemorial.

Almost from the very creation of the world, from its becoming and its schism.

Like many Begotten of Old, she had many names. She’d been called Echidna in Ancient Greece. The northern tribes praised her as Atske. As Abarga, she frightened children who read fairytales. She, Lilith, was damned for her infamy.

All that humans said of her, all their myths and legends surrounding her, was fiction. But there was a grain of truth in it all.

In Eastern and Western Siberia they supposed that the Milky Way was created through her direct intervention.

In Alaska they thought that she lived by snatching suckling infants and feeding off their blood.

She never snatched humans, neither infants nor adults. As for the Milky Way, her blood sister was responsible for that, but she had only been involved obliquely.

She was the Great Black Mother, the ancestress of all monstrosities, the terrible Domina of the Underworld.

In all her infinitely long life, the Black Mother had created thirteen children: six daughters and seven sons. All of them were monstrously deformed by the standards of the human world, and she loved all of them boundlessly. The gigantic, multi-hued tiger and the colossal viper, the lurid yellow hound and the many-headed pangolin – they were the children of the Black Mother, and for most of their lives, which were almost as infinitely long as Hers, they lived in the dark halls of the Underworld, choosing not to appear before the eyes of either humans or other Begotten of Old.

The one who came to be known by humans as Arkhan so very long ago – he was her last, her thirteenth son.

He was her most unfortunate. And her most beloved.

She forgave and allowed him much, almost anything, even when he began to terrorize the human world in his human skin. So it was until this moment.

But the time had come to tell him – be done! It was time to return home.

The Black Mother was looking through the veil that was the Fabric of the Worlds
.
A strange and dreadful pattern – thirteen boils, the same number as her children – adorned the Fabric. Ten of them flourished and ran wild, as it were, but only three of the boils bled and festered. That meant that three of the Black Mother’s children were wandering the world of humans. The lowest boil bled more intensely than the others. It was through this boil that the thirteenth child, the most beloved son of his Mother, had fled the vault of the Underworld.

Marisa watched at the battle unfolding before her eyes as if she was enchanted, unable to find the strength within to tear her gaze away.

She had never seen such a spectacle – not in the Hollywood blockbusters, not in the most violent computer games. Two mythical creatures were battling each other like the most practiced warriors in the world. The disgusting monster and the beautiful, dark-haired vampire. She was quick and daring; she attacked fearlessly and much more deftly than he did. For all his horrifying might, he was clumsy and slow, and did not always manage to ward off the attacks of her sword. And yet, he was stronger.

The vampire scoured the monster with a deluge of thrusts, but the monster seemed to heal before the wounds had even opened. The vampire was bleeding like a stuck pig. He got in one hit for every nine of hers, but this one cost the vampire infinitely more than dozens of hers cost him.

Marisa realized that he was fighting at a third of his strength, if not a fourth, whereas the vampire was giving everything she had. He was only playing. She fought with the desperation of the doomed. He tore her with his claws like she was a rag doll. She shed blood but once again rushed into the fray.

“We’re solving the puzzle, aren’t we?” growled Arkhan as he once again sent Dalana flying. “It’s lex talionis, an eye for an eye.”

Dalana didn’t even try to intervene when he summoned the
Sentinel
and saturated his claws with poison. The pain inflicted by these now venomous claws was ten times worse than it had been before.

Marisa, who had already guessed that the lawn beast was poisonous, realized that the vampire was losing. Suddenly Marisa caught herself thinking that this duel had quickly engendered a sincere respect for the vampire. The beast who had killed Ruslan was fighting like an enraged lioness, fearlessly looking death in the face, or more accurately, in the hideous muzzle of the monster. The overall effect of watching the battle was tarnished by two things: her broken leg and onerous thoughts about her fate. Marisa wondered what this fiend planned to do with her. When he had broken her leg, Marisa had thought that nothing could be worse. But just a bit later, when the behemoth insinuated that he would defile her corpse, she realized it could be worse. Much worse.

At last the vampire succumbed to the monstrosity’s onslaught. The monster easily knocked the sword out of her hand, and it spun away to the other side of the room. The vampire fell to one knee; it seemed she could not get up. Pale, her hair wet with sweat and blood, she waited for the monster to strike the final blow.

The fiend walked up to the half kneeling vampire and grabbed her by the hair. The vampire’s head jerked, dangling from her hair like a marionette hangs from its strings. The monster raised his other paw, preparing to crush the skull of his competitor.

Then a third creature appeared.

A Black Shadow.

Marisa had never seen such a creature before and could not even imagine that something like it could exist. The Black Woman was beautiful. She stood before the monster in all her menacing majesty, holding a net made of flaming chains in her hands.

“We’re going, Son,” said the Shadow in a resonant, powerful voice. “It’s time to return.”

“NO!” screamed the monster, and it seemed to Marisa that her eardrums had burst.

With difficulty Dalana opened her eyes and instantly understood who had appeared there. Mayas-Chara, Black Moon, the Great Goddess of the Underworld, who had begotten Mankhus Arkhan.

Black Mother…Great Mayas-Chara…help me,
implored Dalana.

But her entreaty was not necessary. For Mayas-Chara had come to collect her son.

Dalana heard the Mistress of the Underworld summon Arkhan back. She heard the Mankhus howl like a thousand wolves all at once. But he still did not release Dalana, as before continuing to hold her fast by her hair.

Marisa was almost struck blind by the glaring radiance of the fiery net that the Black Shadow cast over the monster. The fiend bellowed and lashed out desperately, all the while holding the vampire’s hair in his fist.

The Black Shadow was slowly disappearing into what looked like a woven fissure, dragging away the recalcitrant monster she’d ensnared in the fiery net. The monster was dragging the vampire with him; she was too weak to resist. The fissure that was drawing the Black Shadow in was already beginning to tighten around the monster.

Overcoming the pain in her broken leg, Marisa dragged herself on her stomach towards the strange nexus. She crawled up the vampire’s body and anchored herself to the vampire’s shoulders, trying to pull her back. To no effect. The power of the fiery chains was so great that Marisa risked being dragged in with the others.

In search of a way out, Marisa looked around.

The sword!
she thought, but instantly abandoned the idea.

There was no way she could reach the sword in time. Then Marisa’s gaze fell on the fireplace and the boy cringing next to it.

“Give me the poker,” she cried out.

Even though he was cowering in fear, the boy did not have to be told twice. He dragged the heavy poker out of the fireplace and, using both hands, tossed it to Marisa. The poker slid along the parquet flooring and stopped several centimeters from her.

Such nice wooden flooring, it must have cost an insane amount of money,
Marisa thought mechanically as she snatched the poker and flung her arm forward with what remained of her strength, aiming for the monster’s disgusting nose.

Marisa fell short…the poker, which for a fraction of a second became an extension of her arm, slashed deep into the monster’s forearm with a luscious wet sound. The monster howled…and released the vampire’s hair. At that very second the fiery net finally pulled the monster off to a place Marisa was sure she did not care to know.

Marisa realized that she had almost been drawn into the fissure. Shuddering convulsively, she canted over onto her back.

“How are you doing over there?” she asked the boy after a couple of seconds.

“I think I’ll live,” he replied with unchildlike gravity.

“Thanks,” said Marisa, nodding towards the poker. “But next time, try to get out of the line of fire.”

The boy smiled faintly at Marisa.

“My name’s Jan,” he said.

“Special Agent Sukhostat of CRUSS,” she responded.

In the interim, the vampire was coming to her senses.

Dalana had been conscious the whole time, but she had been mentally struggling against Arkhan, who was trying to carry her away into the crucible of the Underworld. The situation had been complicated by the fact that Dalana had to resist another power as well – the Igneous Fetters of the Black Mother. As far as Dalana knew, there was no creature within the bounds of the existing Worlds who could escape from the Fetters, which had been woven from the saliva of the Twelfth Mankhus – Fiery Ganig, the daughter of Mayas-Chara. Arkhan held onto Dalana, knowing that she, clinging to life, would inadvertently help him to prolong his last moments of existence in this World.

Dalana had already been preparing herself to meet death when the girl suddenly whacked Arkhan on the paw with a poker.

“Th…Thanks,” said Dalana, breathing heavily.

“Fu…,” groaned Marisa, beginning to realize what had just happened, what she had just done. “I just saved your life…I must be out of my mind. My gun’s out of bullets and I can’t walk…”

“Don’t worry, I won’t harm you,” Dalana said in a weak, but already more steady voice.

“She won’t harm me!” snorted Marisa. “Listen, you little…what kind of a…who are you anyway?”

“I’m Dalana. A vampire, Begotten of Old,” replied Dalana as she got to her feet.

She was staggering like a drunken sailor, but she set her teeth and managed to find her balance. The drawing room resembled a slaughterhouse, the entire floor and even the stone walls were swimming in blood. And not just human blood.

“Beg…gotten of Old,” repeated Marisa uncertainly. “Vampire – that I understand. And those two, who were they?”

“They are also Begotten of Old.”

Dalana looked at her watch. Significantly less than three hours had passed since she’d found herself in this terrible snare.

But it seemed like all eternity.

She still had time to get to the airport. There was even a small margin of time to gather her strength.

“Neither vampires, nor werewolves. What exactly were those creatures?” asked Marisa.

“That’s not something you really need to know,” replied Dalana. “Not anymore.”

She examined herself from head to toe and was horrified. It was a good thing that she had a spare set of clothing in the car.

“But who are you? What do the words Begotten of Old mean?”

“The more you know, the worse you’ll sleep,” replied Dalana, mechanically noting the similarity between this curious girl and Vasilisa. She was just as interested in knowing everything.

All at once Dalana saw her sword; it was gleaming on the floor in a pool of blood.

That sword is crap,
thought Dalana.
I’ll never use such a weapon again. But I still have to carry out my commission.

She raised the sword and looked at Marisa.

3.

 

Habita fides ipsam plerumque fidem obligat.

The confidence we repose in another, often evokes a corresponding fidelity.

 

The girl was lying on the floor, weakened and vulnerable. Dalana herself could hardly keep on her feet, but the strength in her arms would still be enough. One small swing of her arm.

Five million dollars.

Against a saved life. Her own life.

Butchered Vasilisa. With the blown-apart skull.

Against the prospect of winding up in the Underworld.

Don’t kill her.

Dalana looked at the boy, the son of Arkhan. It seemed that he genuinely feared for the life of Special Agent Marisa Sukhostat of CRUSS.