Death of a Nightingale

CHAPTER 30: OPEN EYES

His eyes make my stomach drop with, what is this feeling? Fear? I remember it vaguely from centuries ago. I last felt it the night my family died and I was turned into the creature I am now. It crawls from the inside of my neck, all the way down to the pit of my stomach. It tingles. Not pleasantly and without control.

I watch him slowly licking his fingers clean with a small moan. I shudder in disgust. He enjoys riling me up and a sadistic smile bends his mouth to one side. With one smooth, feline jump, he lands across me on the ceiling beam. He's much faster than me and he knows it. Like a predator scaring a rival into submission, he calmly rises to his full, impressive height in front of me. I force myself to stand tall myself, hiding my fear.

He inhales like a sommelier would a marvelous wine. I realize, he's judging my scent. But for what? Is he going to do what he did to the man below us? Cut me to ribbons and drink me dry? He can't. I cannot die. He couldn't kill me.

"Bold of you to come visit me."

His voice isn't a welcome sound. It is underused, raspy, and full of threat. An itch under my skin that won't go away.

"I am so much stronger and older than you. Why risk it?"

As he speaks, he wipes his dirty blades on his pants, staining them with his victim's blood. I watch him with horrid fascination, realizing he asked me a question. Confusion spreads through me. Risk what?

"I'm like you. I cannot die." I tell him and hear my own voice sounding like the one of a child.

The dark figure grins. Stained teeth. Not a pretty sight. He cocks his head and twirls one of his shiny blades through the blood-humid air.

"Of course, you can. I'll teach you."

For a split second his words ring through me. Comprehension is slow to follow. But then they hit me like a ton of bricks, stunning me for too long to see what dire situation I've put myself into.

He lunges. A slice of the right blade misses me by a hair's breadth as I instinctively let myself drop down a level. I land on my feet but they slide in the dead man's blood. I am hopelessly outmatched.

The monster follows, feinting with the left sword, but stabbing with the right. Only centuries of experience and my father's lovely scalpels give me a fighting chance.

I duck and the attack misses again. With a flick of my wrists, my gauntlets release their own blades, thinner and much sharper than his, and I slice with precision. My father's surgical tenacity taught me that well-curated specificity can save a life. Let's hope he's right.

My curved blade finds purchase and slices through the dark figure's pants. Not deeply, but enough to make him withdraw his vicious attack and move backward. He underestimated me. But I have made the same mistake with him and I've already come to regret it. I let myself fall backward and roll. The more space between me and him, the better. I land on my naked feet. My knees are bent and nimble and I bounce from one leg to the other, watching my opponent with alertness.

No one taught me to fight. There was never truly a need for it. I've always been the alpha anywhere I went. But I did learn a few things to kill quicker and impose less trauma and pain on my victims.

He grins at me and his hideous smile splits his face in two. Then he screeches, shrill and petrifying. It startles me and I lose my focus.

He uses the temporary distraction and jumps up. Out of sight.

I try desperately to trace him but his footsteps are silent, even for my preternatural auditory ability. My eyes dart across every inch, every beam above. He could be anywhere. He could jump down from behind me and slice without warning.