|
Nick scrambled to his feet as the men fanned out. “Is there a room off this place where the immortal could have gone?” he asked.
She handed him his gun while thinking. “Only thing I can think of is the technician’s room. It’s shielded and heated to protect the equipment.”
“Where?” asked Nick.
“Just off to the right before you come in here. The door is locked to prevent heat loss.” She thought a moment. “And there’s a door to the outside.”
“You stay here and keep the princess safe; I’ll go get him.” Nick was off before she could reply.
“Wait,” she called, but got no further as shots rang out through the dome. Wheeling around, she yelled, “Everyone down,” and ran towards her charge.
Nick heard the shots, but continued around the dome’s entrance, down a short hall towards the heavy door. He tested the door gingerly, wondering if the door was shielding the immortal buzz. The lock showed signs of tampering so he pulled it slowly, his gun firmly in his hand. “I’m coming in,” he called and waited briefly before entering.
“Oh shit.” Nick knelt beside the prone body of a young man. The wide-open eyes and the amount of blood from the gaping wound on his neck told Nick that he was already dead, but he checked anyway. A cold gust of wind blew in through the open door on the far side of the booth. The gunfire had stopped in the dome, so Nick hoped that the woman and her crew had subdued the henchmen, but the immortal was his target now.
As soon as he was outside, Nick picked up the sense of the immortal, and he followed into the darkness. Through the blowing snow, he tracked him far from the compound, beyond the lights. The sounds of the party faded behind him as he continued to follow the sensation. Finally, behind a tall pile of snow, the immortal waited, his sword drawn.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Nick, his gun hidden at his side.
“You’re the one who was following us. Let’s get this over with, so I can complete my job. Royalty has been out of place in society for years. Russia did it right when I, Yakov Yurovsky, executed the last czar and his whole family in 1918. It is time for all the royals in all countries to be eliminated.” Short and powerful-looking, with thick dark hair and a large mustache, the man’s Russian accent hung in the cold air.
“That’s what you do with your immortality? Go around killing mortals? Don’t you have anything better to do?” Nick watched the sword blade, but was confident. His gun had never failed him before and finding out this man’s motivation might help him uncover more of his organization. He figured he’d shoot him and bury him under a snow bank. Guy might stay frozen until spring; longer if he piled enough rocks on top of him.
“Finding a just cause and seeing it through generations is worthy occupation. What are you doing with your immortality that you feel justified to preach to me?” asked the man.
Nick had largely ignored his immortality for the past several months, working for Bert, staying away from Amanda and Liam, dealing with immortals by avoiding them or running. “Not killing people, that’s for sure,” he replied.
“Then your life is worthless. Come and fight me instead of judging me.” The man took two steps towards Nick who raised his gun and fired.
The gun jammed. The man sneered, “You fight with a gun and you consider yourself better than me? Pull your sword.”
Nick frantically attempted to fix the gun, but the clip was stuck. “I don’t want to fight you. I reject the whole idea of a game.”
“Then die, you miserable worthless pig,” snarled the Russian, his sword raised to strike. “The game is what we were made to do.”
Though completely outmatched, Nick threw the gun away and prepared to launch an attack on the man. Once again he was surprised to find that he wanted to live.
The woman stepped around the snow bank. “Instead of being a coward and killing an unarmed man, be sporting and fight me instead.”
The two men froze as Yurovsky’s harsh laugh rang out in the silence of the frozen tableau. “Gladly. And when I’ve taken your pretty little head, what is to stop me of killing him anyway?”
“Because I won’t lose,” she answered from Nick’s side.
“Then may I have the honor of knowing your name?” Yurovsky asked, performing a courtly bow, his arms wide, his eyes and tone mocking. “I don’t particularly enjoy killing women, especially not one as beautiful as you.”
“I am Kyra and I am certainly not just another pretty face. Trying to kill an innocent child simply because she was born into royalty? Sounds like jealousy to me. You don’t have enough honor to call yourself a soldier.” Her tone mimicked his mocking one.
“No,” yelled Nick, grabbing at her arm. “Don’t do this! Especially not on my account.”
“Who said it was on your account?” asked Kyra, evading him easily. “Now get back.”
She ran at the Russian, her cutlass ready for attack. Yurovsky slashed down with his heavy broadsword onto her lighter cutlass, but she was too fast, moving the blade out of the way. As his sword buried itself in the deeply packed snow she thrust at his leg, cutting through several layers of material. With his free hand, he back handed her in the face, sending her reeling away before she could do real damage.
Taking a huge step forward, Yurovsky once again slashed at Kyra’s head, as she held her bleeding mouth, seemingly unaware on one knee. “Kyra!” yelled Nick, cursing his broken gun, hating that this slight woman was fighting his fight. Rage built inside him, combined with a primal urge to fight if only to prevent the death of this woman.
“Die, b###h,” growled the Russian, but Kyra was too fast. She rose from her kneeling position, her sword meeting his with a clash. She forced him to step back as Nick came up from the side, his fists ready to do battle.
“No! You may not interfere,” shouted Kyra, her blade thrusting as Yurovsky parried, continuing to back up in the snow. Nick hesitated, but again was overcome with a compulsion to obey if only to avoid distracting her. He backed off, watching warily.
She skipped out the way as his blade came close to her sword arm. The man was carried by the momentum of his swing and whirled around. Before he faced her again, Kyra moved in close, smashing his nose with the pommel of her sword. As he doubled over, she kicked him in the knee.
He went down on the knee but reached out to swing his sword at her midsection, a sneer on his face. “I do not intimidate that easily, my dear girl.” Back on his feet, he was silenced as once again her foot lashed out, catching him the face. Grunting loudly, he backed off momentarily, but recovered quickly as the swords clashed again and again.
Responses