“Begin,” says the Vulpe witness.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Ambrose lunges for Claude without a word. That’s all I can see before both vampires move too fast for me to follow, a blur of motion in the center of a completely still crowd. It is eerily silent, both the fight and the crowd; I fear everyone can hear the frantic drum of my heartbeat, my shaky breaths as I cling to Benjamin’s arm. Dark blood splatters against the stark white floor, and I press a hand to my mouth to stifle my gasp, but the fight is such rapid chaos that I can’t even tell who’s bleeding.
I tear my eyes off it to look at Sebastian, whose face is unreadable as his eyes flicker over the duel, and then at Benjamin, who gives me a grim, tight-lipped smile.
“They’re closely matched,” he murmurs. Someone nearby hisses in disapproval of the noise, and he says nothing more but squeezes my hand. I cannot tell whether or not I should be reassured.
Then all at once there’s a stir in the crowd. A group on the edge of the room scatters, and a half second later a body thumps against the wall there and slumps to the floor. My heart surges—Ambrose. A moment later Claude is standing over him. His shirt is torn, and he’s bleeding from a half dozen bite wounds across his neck and torso, but he’s still standing and Ambrose isn’t.
Yet his shoulders are trembling, with exhaustion or emotion, as he stares down at his sire. “Yield,” he says.
“No,” Sebastian says, barely more than a breath. “Finish it, Claude—”
Ambrose tilts his head back, long hair falling away from his face. His bloodstained lips curl back.
Claude lunges for him. But Ambrose speaks first.
“Don’t move,” he rasps.
Claude goes still. One hand is still outstretched, his grasping fingers a mere inch from Ambrose’s neck. Ambrose pushes it aside and stands on shaky legs.
A murmur ripples through the crowd, along with low hisses of outrage. Ambrose glances sidelong at the watching court and bares his fangs, but he doesn’t step away from Claude.
“He ismyfledgling,” he says, loud enough to be heard above the clamor. He circles around the still-frozen Claude, his steps measured and his expression calculating. “And it ismyduel, which I have not yet lost.”
The vampires watching are shifting, their disapproval palpable. But nobody steps in to stop this. I lunge forward to do it myself, but Benjamin catches me around the waist and pulls me back, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, you can’t interfere,” he says. “They’ll kill you.” And then, slightly louder, “Nor can you, Sebastian. Unless you wish to incite another court war.”
Sebastian hisses under his breath, his fangs out and his eyes locked on Ambrose. But he doesn’t move.
“Kneel,” Ambrose says, and Claude’s knees hit the floor with acrackthat seems to echo in the silent room. His hands sit limp on his thighs, his head tilted down so dark curls obscure his eyes.
Ambrose seizes a fistful of Claude’s hair and pulls his head back, exposing the pale column of his neck.
“All of this could have been avoided,” he murmurs, looking down at Claude with palpable distaste, “if you had only done as Isaid.” He strokes one fingertip down Claude’s cheekbone, almost tenderly, before his hand wraps around his neck.
Benjamin pulls me closer. “Look away,” he murmurs.
But I refuse. Push him away. Continue to watch, even as tears start to fill my eyes.
This can’t be happening. It can’t be the way it ends. But if it is, the least I can do is watch.
And as Ambrose’s fingers tighten and start to pull, I can’t keep quiet. I don’t care that the room is silent enough to hear a pin drop, that everyone else is merely standing by and watching as though this is some sick form of entertainment.
“Fight him!” I cry. I strain against Benjamin’s arms again, heedless that heads around the room are turning to look at me. Ambrose turns too, his lips curving into a horrible grin as he sees my emotions spill over. I don’t know if this counts as interfering with the duel, and at this moment, I don’t care. I just want Claude to have a fair chance. “Fight him!” I know he can. He has to.
Through the blur of my tears, I see Claude’s fingers twitch.
Ambrose turns back to him, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. And suddenly, Claude is on his feet, twisting out of Ambrose’s grip as his fist swings to deliver a swift jab to Ambrose’s sternum.
Ambrose staggers back, eyes wide with shock and fury. Claude tackles him to the ground, wraps both hands around his neck.
Vampires don’t need to breathe, but when I see Ambrose’s lips move without sound, I realize his purpose: they still need air to speak. Ambrose struggles against his grip, but Claude keeps him pinned with his full weight.
A drop of blood splatters against Ambrose’s shocked face. Another. My stomach drops but Claude lifts his head, and asI see the red trailing down from his eyes, I realize he’s not wounded. He’s weeping.
