But Samuel knew his strength, so he smiled in return, which gave the bastard a moment’s pause before he engaged.
Samuel’s sword met steel, the strike sending a heavy vibration up his right arm.
He countered, and smiled as the pretty- boy took a step back. The death vampire was incredibly beautiful with long dark hair, a porcelain complexion, and an aligning of features that eventually made him and all his murdering kind look alike.
Purpose?
Enthrallment, of course.
Bastards.
The death vampire finally lost all his good-humor and came back enraged that he’d lost his easy victory. He even whistled for back-up.
Samuel’s turn to smile. “Can’t do this alone?
Bring it, pretty-boy.” The nickname sent color at last into the death vamp’s oh-so-lovely complexion as well as a series of reckless moves.
A few seconds later, as Samuel continued to match his slices and thrusts, one of his fellow vamps joined him.
Samuel kept summoning the dark power and his muscles filled with all that incredible strength. He gave it free rein because these bastards needed to die.
Death vampires drank the innocent to death in order to get at the euphoric nature of dying blood.
He folded, spun, and caught one of the death vamps straight across the hamstrings so that the pretty-boy dropped to his knees.
Just as the other turned to engage, Samuel folded again, but instead of landing on earth, he materialized in the air above his enemy, something rare in his world. He brought his dagger from his weapons harness into his left hand and as he came down on the vamp, drew the sharp blade in a clean cut across his throat.
Samuel folded once more, spinning mid-dematerialization then reappearing behind two death vamps still battling Santiago. The rest of the action became a blur of cutting tendons, running slices through wing-locks, and of course taking off the oh-so-beautiful heads of his enemy.
He breathed hard when the last headless corpse leaked blood over the dirt. He stood with arms wide, sword up, still on alert as his gaze searched for the enemy high in the air and into every crevice of the monolith.
“Samuel? Is that you, hermano?” He heard his name and spun in Santiago’s direction. A metallic smell coated the dusty desert air.
The famous warrior looked at ease, wiping his blade down with a cloth he’d folded into his hand. His sword had a ruby set in the center of the cross-guard.
“Fuck,” Samuel spit. He’d meant to get the hell out of there before Santiago took stock of him, but the battle had kicked his fighting rage into high gear and all he could think about was being ready for the next round.
Santiago drew his thin warrior phone into his hand and called for clean-up.
When he ended the call, he said, “Close your eyes.” Samuel dropped his lids and a flash told him that Jeannie had orchestrated a full scale removal of disconnected debris including corpses, body parts, and blood.
The process took only a couple of seconds, so yes, Central had power. He popped his eyes open and here was one miracle of their world, that they now had technology to leave a pristine desert behind after a battle.
“When were you going to show Luken this power of yours? Or Jean- Pierre? Right now I’m not sure which brother will be more angry with you.” Santiago still had a Spanish accent, even after several centuries, something that tended to stick for all ascenders, depending on place of birth. Santiago was from Mortal Earth Spain a few hundred years ago.
“Never.” Samuel’s voice sounded rougher than usual. His power had that effect.
He turned, ready to fold someplace else, away from the battle site in order to resume his natural state, but back-up had finally arrived.
Luken, the leader of the Warriors of the Blood, stood beside Jean-Pierre and both men glared at him.
“I’m not doing this,” Samuel said, meeting Luken’s gaze dead on. “You can’t have this ability for your Warrior of the Blood shit.” Samuel had been a Militia Warrior, a Thunder God Warrior, almost from the day of his ascension to Second Earth in 1908. He didn’t want to leave behind the men who had held his loyalty all these decades. Besides, he couldn’t always control his dark power and more than anything he feared hurting or killing someone, other than the enemy, by using it as a weapon on a regular basis.
“You may not get a say in this,” Luken said. Built like a tank, he led the What-Bees, as the Warriors of the Blood were known among the Militia Warriors.
He had blue eyes and long blond hair, extra-long like all the What-Bees, and caught back in the required clasp called the cadroen. Women followed him around the Blood and Bite, taking care of his needs with little more than a snap of his fingers.
Samuel opened his mouth to explain, but Jean-Pierre, usually good-natured, stepped toward him and got right in his face. “You goddamned motherfucker!” The words sounded so strange spoken in his French accent. “All these months that I have worked with the Militia Warriors, seeking to build up those with exceptional power, but you never said a word to me or anyone else. I suppose not even to Duncan, who is your friend and who helped you escape.”
“Don’t blame Duncan. He knew, but he understood my reasons.”
“Fuck those reasons. Merde, how many times did I speak to your section and ask if any warrior had an emerging power that he wanted brought forward, developed? And this is what you have had all the time? Were you laughing at me, warrior?”
“No. Fuck, no.” Samuel took a step back, horrified that Jean-Pierre would accuse him of such a thing.
“I am pissed past speaking the words!” Jean-Pierre’s nostrils flared.
“How could you have held back this tremendous power that I have just witnessed, so dark and so beautiful, like a flow of smoke and mist around you? Or do you not understand that even though Greaves is gone, we still have a terrible war threatening our entire world?” He grunted his exasperation and without waiting for a response, he lifted his right arm and vanished.
Samuel turned to meet Luken’s gaze, wanting to explain, but the usually affable warrior shook his head, and muttered, “You’ll be hearing from us.” He also lifted his arm, the signal for a fold, and vanished.
Samuel stood very still, distressed that he hadn’t been given a chance to explain. The warriors viewed him as having let down the war effort, but he knew what he risked each time he released the dark power .
And how the hell could Jean-Pierre have described it as beautiful?
As his dark power began to recede, and the attending smoky mist that came out of his body, evaporated, Samuel pivoted to glare at Santiago. He waited for the warrior to say something, and so he did.