Page 70 of Slaying the Vampire Conqueror

Through the carnage, as we cut through the first wave, Atrius rasped at me, “Where?”

Where is Tarkan?

That was the only thought in my mind, too. I could feel him there, like a splinter wedged into my fingertip.

I pointed my blade to the bedchamber. “There.”

There were other guards there, too—just a few. I sensed them rushing into Tarkan’s bedchamber from the opposite wing of the apartment. Arming him, perhaps, or maybe attempting to help him escape.

They wouldn’t get the chance for that.

The two of us stepped over the freshest bodies toward the bedchamber door.

But Tarkan wasn’t Aaves. He wouldn’t meet his death cowering at the foot of his bed. Tarkan had gotten where he was today because he was a warrior.

The door swung open.

After so many years without eyesight, one starts to forget what it feels like to see something in that form. Yet there were some images that remained seared into my mind as I had once seen them—some that I didn’t want to remember, and some that I wished I could remember more. I was not supposed to hold any of those memories, whether in love or hatred. I was supposed to wipe them all away like the Arachessen taught me.

But the memory of Tarkan’s face remained with me, another mark that still stubbornly remained on my slate.

I experienced him differently now, of course. But the image of him as I’d seen him nearly twenty years ago still struck me when heopened that door. He was a tall man, hair neat and slicked back—even in sleep, apparently—and beard well-groomed. I could sense the age in him now, the way it hollowed his cheeks and weighed down the fragile skin around his dark eyes. And yet, so much was the same. The hard angles to his appearance, brutal and selfish. The way he looked at the world like it belonged to him.

Strange, how the past didn’t feel so strong until all at once it surrounded you again, like the tides swallowing the tunnels of Alka.

Tarkan didn’t say a word to us. He just nodded, and the two guards with him lunged at us.

Atrius disposed of the first one easily. The second came at me. He was wielding an axe—the brutal tool of someone trained by a warlord, but a fine one, perhaps given to him by Tarkan himself. He was a decent fighter, but nothing special. The frenetic choppiness to his movements, too-quick and too-abrupt, hinted that he was under the influence of Pythoraseed—good quality stuff, if it helped him move faster rather than slowing him down.

Maybe that was why I didn’t recognize him at first.

Not until I blocked one of his strikes, and the proximity of him sparked something in the back of my mind, something I just couldn’t place?—

I hesitated too long. He swung.

Across the room, Tarkan lunged, wielding a jewel-encrusted saber. Atrius’s hood had fallen back. The two of them faced each other down with the vicious focus of wolves preparing to tear each other apart.

The edge of my opponent’s axe caught my veil as I pulled away, tearing it partially from my face. Frustrated by the fluttering fabric, I ripped it away, and swung back to counter?—

But my attacker’s eyes went wide. His axe clattered to the ground. His shock rippled all the threads in the room.

“Vivi?” he breathed.

Naro.

All at once, the familiarity hit me. The sound of his voice brought it back.

At the last second, I diverted my strike. I nicked his ear and sent myself stumbling against the sofa.

I whirled around.

The blood drained from my face. Weaver, it felt like it drained from my entire body. My hands were numb. I needed to fight, but couldn’t make myself move.

His presence was so different than it had been then. Blurry with years of drug use, older, harder, and scarred.

And yet—how could I not have recognized him?

How could I not have recognized mybrother?

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