Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 37

Vander gives a flourish of his hand, as if it's all past. "He turned me for my fortune, then kept me prisoner so he could milk me dry. He took great pride in being a 'working man' and believed that my wealth had made me soft, when in reality the creation of my dream had made me quite hard indeed. He built barns. I built this." He waves his hand as if to take in not only his underground castle and the outside estate, but the mountains and forest and all of Asheville itself. "With a bit of seductive maneuvering, I lured him to Blood Mountain. We made love beneath the waxing moon and at the peak of his pleasure, I drove a saber through his flesh."

A look of amazement crosses William's face followed by a flicker of wariness. Yes, William. Vander is dangerous. We are all dangerous.

"I struck beneath the clavicle, driving down through the lung, avoiding the heart, jamming the blade deep into the earth. He was pinned as thoroughly as a butterfly to a corkboard. I left him, fully expecting him to escape. I didn't want him to die. I simply wanted him to suffer. But apparently he was too injured in spirit and flesh to free himself. At sunrise his screams began, hysterical and horrifying, until he somehow managed to escape. Needless to say, he was the Master no longer." Vander raises a finger to capture our attention, as if by some bizarre circumstance he had lost it. "Never underestimate your opponent, Anne, but pray they underestimate you. Enough talking." He gives a quick clap. "Begin."

William and I make eye contact across the length of our blades. "Nice and slow," he says. "Follow me." He feints and parries, forward and back, carefully. The blade dips and swoops like a flash of light, its presence in time and space as fleeting as a shooting star. Shining and brilliant. The blade itself reminds me of William. Graceful. Surprising. And entirely capable of hurting me if I'm not cautious.

Along the way, he names the moves: attack, feint, lunge, disengage, remise, flick, parry. Then it is circle parry, riposte, counter attack, point in line. The words draw me in. There is something romantic and adventurous about them. Perhaps it's time to reread my Dumas, this time in French.

I follow with astonishing ease, my body moving naturally as if I have fenced all my life. William quickens his pace. His speed surprises me. He is fast for a mortal. And strong. The tip of the blade is covered, but I am careful not to let loose the full extent of my strength.

I don't want to scare him away.

***

We fence for hours and, to my great surprise, I learn surprisingly fast. William begins to gleam with the sheen of sweat while I remain cool and dry. His hair grows wilder with every lunge. He moves faster and attacks harder, yet I handle it all with a skill it took him years to attain. Finally, after I have beaten him yet another time, he throws the saber down in a fit of frustration.

"This is ridiculous! She learns in a few hours what I have trained all my life to do."

"I'm sure if you were like me you would beat me with ease."

William frowns. "I don't understand. You seem a genetically superior being in all manners: physically and mentally. If our antagonist is the same, it will be very hard to beat him indeed."

I laugh. "Despite my preternatural strength, I am hardly superior mentally, I assure you. The turning does not make one more intelligent. If anything, it hijacks our reason, enslaving it to instinct and impulse. Why else would we hide in the shadows like fugitives and contribute so little to humanity?"

"It is true, William," Vander says. "Remember who you have across from you. All the Brontës had brilliant minds. Do not confuse Anne with the rest of her kind."

"And remember," I say, "Santos and his men took down Jadallah. You handled him yourself in interrogation. We are not gods. I think I am just especially invigorated by a good meal and friendly companionship." I smile. "Both, I have not enjoyed in a very long time."

"Well, I throw in the towel." William re-sheathes the saber and returns it to its home. "You, Miss Bell" —he bows— "have quite vanquished me."

Suddenly, I feel shy. "I assure you, Professor Hardcastle, you are the first."

I hand him my saber but Vander says, "No, Anne. Keep it. Take it home and practice. Tomorrow night, if you're free, we will train again."

"Very well," I say, wondering if I'm holding the very blade that killed Vander's maker. My brow knits as the thought flits across my mind.

"That is a fine saber," he says. "It strikes straight and true, but you must use it with absolute commitment."

I sigh. One night is not enough to reconcile me with the thought of killing after I have spent so much time and effort trying to free myself from that necessity. As a girl, the death of a sparrow crushed me, and now William and Vander expect me to kill coolly, dispassionately. Regardless, I do not wish to argue with Vander. He seems as stubborn as any Brontë I've known, and I certainly don't wish to disappoint William.

"Sunrise is a few hours off," Vander says to William. "I think it's time to show Anne home."

"Certainly." He nods and takes a sip of chilled water. "Thank you for the refreshments." William strides over to Woody and, bending down, gently places a hand on his softly breathing chest. "Time to go, Woodrow. Wake up."

Woody issues a low growl, apparently not wanting to be disturbed, but William slides his large hands underneath and picks him up, cradling him in one arm. "He's cantankerous when he's tired." He moves for the door and pauses, waiting for me to precede him.

"Give us one moment, William," Vander says. Somewhat reluctantly, William steps out of the room.

"Anne, I have something for you."

In a flash Vander vanishes and just as quickly reappears, with a plump calico-colored rabbit in his arms. It is a docile thing, calm against his chest as he strokes it.

"If you are to have enough strength to protect your friends, it's time you fed for real, Anne. This fellow has had a charmed life. Take him fast before he has time to be afraid."

He holds him out to me. Tears are welling hot behind my eyes. So silly, I know. Life comes from death and this fellow has his part to play. It's all life rising and dying, a great circle that I don't want to be a part of. I want to step off the wheel of bloodshed. Why can't I be like the monks or yogis who live free from killing? I've met them. Such enlightened beings, thrumming to a higher frequency, in harmony with the universe while I constantly struggle to survive, contrary to nature and humanity. Why can't I be like them?

"Someone must protect this town, Anne, and you are the only one with half a chance."

I shake my head in disbelief. What can I possibly do? Why do they overestimate me so?

The rabbit is warm and soft in my hand. His tiny heart beats against my palm, a pitter-patter against my skin. I stroke his fur and run my fingers over his long, elegant ears and I remember Lucien's mountain girl, drained of blood in the snow, left bare to the sky for Santos to find; and with her held fast in my mind, I sink my teeth into the rabbit's velveteen neck and drink.

He doesn't fight. I pull hard and fast to end it quickly, yet he relaxes like a willing victim. Within seconds, he falls unconscious and I perch on the precipice of the final pull. The pulse of life clings, clutches, and claws for continuance, and with an easy yank, I pull it free.