29. Vanya
29
VANYA
K eeping track of Ero is like chasing smoke.
The name Ghost does him justice.
On the second level he takes a corner, seeming to vanish for a moment, until I take a step into the hallway. He lashes out, his blade aiming for my face.
It is good he chose knives. Guns would draw too much attention. And it is good for me too.
I am an expert with knives.
Pinch. Twist.
His hand spasms, dropping the blade into my hand. Not that I don’t have several of my own hidden all over my outfit.
The numbness in his fingers barely fazes him. With razor-like precision, he chops two fingers through my guard, tapping my shoulder at the joint.
My arm goes limp and I lunge back out of reach.
“I see why he loves you.”
And then he’s gone, taking a turn I couldn’t see, up another flight of steps.
The chase continues as feeling returns to my arm. He’s always just out of view, I catch his foot, his hand, his hair. Just before he vanishes again.
I should not let it get to me.
He wants me to get angry. Wants me to pursue him. To what end, I do not know. Our cat and mouse continues to the top level.
The fifth floor is vacant. A large stretch of open halls, the dividing walls pulled back and pillars dotting the room every dozen or so steps.
He could be waiting behind any one of them.
Tension rises as I creep through the silent expanse. Only faint noise echoes from the gathering below, far off toward the front of the building where all the floors overlook the atrium and ballroom.
Taking a few loud steps, I reverse course, slipping behind a pillar. I dart to another.
A flicker of movement. I shift.
“Huntress,” his voice reverberates around the chamber. He does not give away his position, but it tells me so much more.
Now we are even. Neither of us knows where the other is. And he is nervous.
“Prey…” I reply, moving again.
“Hardly. I led you here.”
“You lead nothing. Not even your own life.”
Something like a grunt of frustration echoes out, followed by a scuffle of feet. He thought he found me. Or I am getting under his skin.
“You love him. Your brother.”
“You loved yours. How did it feel to lose him?” Hollow jabs, meant to rile me. He does not know his opponent.
I do.
“Losing him truly to death is better than having him turn on me. Abandon me.”
This time his growl is immediate. A reaction.
He moves carelessly.
And I know where he is.
Launching a dagger ahead of my silent rush, the blade sinks into the flesh of his arm right before I swipe his foot out from under him. He bends with the movement, taking the gash on his arm to flow with the fall.
Ero is nimble, even when wounded.
And he is resilient to pain, like his brother.
Metal flashes. Our blades sing as they impact again and again. Soon we both wield two, dancing out in the open, moving across the space. Back and forth.
His skill is clinical. Perfect.
But now I notice something different. An uncertainty in his movements that was not there.
“When we fought before, you fought to die. What changed?” I jab, parry, stab, slash, duck, side flip, block.
Ero’s lip curls as he returns every slash blow for blow, his actions growing more rash, exaggerated. Block, lunge, dodge, stab, slash, evade.
“You tell me? Why have you only gotten more fierce since the first time we clashed?!”
“You would not understand.” I smirk, flinging myself forward, down on my knees, my back arching under a wild slice. Both of my blades fly straight toward his gut.
Two blades cross over mine, Ero launches himself over me in a headlong flip.
Fucking Diamantes and their acrobatics.
Not that I don’t have a few moves of my own. My palm plants on the ground in fluid motion, my feet slide out from under me, arching back into a single handstand that would make a breakdancer cry.
Ero’s forearm takes the brunt of my two footed kick, his other hand missing my spinning slash and taking another slice across the knuckles.
We’re both nicked, stinging and bloody.
But he is panting, holding his side where the tip of my knife connected.
“I do understand. He replaced me. He replaced his whole family.” His cold words and tone are contrasted in his gaze, those shark eyes showing pain, doubt.
“Who did you replace them with?” I shift tactics, having no desire to belittle him.
Ero’s glare falters. He backs away.
“What?”
“When you made the choice to keep them hidden, to let them escape. Because you did, didn’t you? Or have you lied to yourself for so long that you cannot remember?”
The front of the hall grows louder, the gap in the floor only a dozen yards behind him. One of the chandelier chains trails down through the opening, railed all the way around on this floor. Beyond, waist-high windows line the wall.
“Adriano is probably in prison. Alessandro is…”
“He is what, Fiero?” I stalk in, keeping my hands visible.
‘H-he’s dead. I killed him.” he blinks, his eyes darting from side to side, like he is reliving a memory.
“No, Ero. he’s not.”
“Yes. And Adriano too. They shanked him in jail. Dom…it was Dom. Ciro is the only one…I have to save him.” His face grows distant, slack.
Right before he bursts into a run, smashing out through the window.
I make it to the shattered opening just in time to see him swing down on a rope, repelling down to the upper balcony.
The nearest stairs take me precious seconds to reach, leaping down three at a time. I’m rounding the corner and running full out along the upper causeway. Down below, I catch sight of Ciro.
Rounding the bend at the edge of the upper-level railing, I frantically look for a way down. Nothing.
Then the bomb goes off.
The floor bucks under me, tossing me up, dropping me hard. Sitting up, I feel the section of floor near the edge buckle, sag. Ahead of me, the railing is gone, the glass shattered, the thin metal dangling on both sides. And across the way, Ero raises his gun.
“Ciro!” I point.
Masonry crumbles, the floor drops out beneath me, tipping down to the next level. I scramble against the slide, but it drags me down, pitching me over backward and into a rolling fall. The impact knocks the wind from me, but I am aware enough to realize I am on stable ground. At least for the moment.
Shoving off the rubble, I stumble to my feet, spinning, trying to find Ciro.
Shouts from below tell me all I need to know.
Looking down, I see Ciro soaring over the crowd, hanging from the chandelier, swinging in a long arc. He lets go, flips…
I see him disappear behind the lip of the floor, I lose sight of him.
Just as a gunshot rings out. My head whips back up.
Ero is gone.
The people below me scream, panicking. Any remaining guards guide them out to safety. I’m leaping across fissures, sliding down another floor on a collapsed ramp of cement. Down a hanging lamp, tearing the wire from the wall in my haphazard descent.
I land hard, my feet barking in pain, my hands clapping down on shattered glass.
All around, dust settles, wide-eyed guests rush toward safety.
My only thought is for him, my Shakal.
Across the room near where I last saw Pyotr, a cluster of Bratva heavies are under attack. Another group of what appear to be Mocro are locked in a vicious battle with Pyotr’s guards. I pray he is not in the pile of bodies peppering that section of the ballroom.
I am skirting the mayhem, trying to spot any sign of Ciro. There is blood where he should have landed, but no sign of him. Panic coils in my stomach, replaced by blinding rage when I catch a hint of black in my periphery. Wading through debris, I make my way toward the steps to the balcony.
“Ero. Ghost.” I announce his name, like a death sentence. Like his eulogy.
He’s right there, leaning on a column.
Our eyes meet and he bares his teeth. There is almost no recognition in his eyes. Just wild hatred.
In my heart, I know there is only one choice. I must end this.
Shouts and screams of battle are punctuated by rattling pebbles, rumbles of the building settling, breaking apart. I block it out, focused on my opponent.
Stepping toward him, I place my foot down.
A colossal snap shakes the structure.
And the floor caves in.