There was a bizarre titter of amusement and a round of clapping from the cluster of fiends, as if you’d performed a small play for their entertainment.
“I’ll take you from here,” John murmured, “would you like to see your mother?” He’d already stood, holding you easily as if you were no more burdensome than a piece of paper.
“NO!”
“Stephen! Mind your tongue!” It was the elder Tyrrell, you could not call him “Lord,” or “Master.” Not this fiend. But he was clearly furious, both from seeing whatever plan he had for you coming to an end and his vile son’s disobedience.
But Stephen was charging at your little huddle, eyes blazing crimson and arms spread wide as if to crush you. “The Claim means nothing if this upstart is sent to Hel torn limb from limb!” He was screaming, eyes glazed red and any hint of sanity gone, “She is mine! Mine!” He was a child, tantruming as his toy was taken away, not hearing his father’s order to step back. “And I’ll start with his filthy metal arm! He’s a freak, unnatural!”
“Sweetheart, come with me,” it was your mother, trying to pull you behind her.
Faced with the screaming heir of the Night Brethren, John looked back at you first. With a strange little smile, he took off his black hat. “Hold this for me.”
Your shaking hand reached for it. “All- all right, please, be careful. He’s disgusting and insane, and-”
This odd monster who’d kept you in your Birdcage for so long swooped in for a quick press of his full mouth against yours.
“I know. But he will never touch you again.”
Not that you had ever given thought to what discord amongst monsters would look like. But given the towering mansion and the opulence around you, the expensively dressed monsters and the finest of everything…. A duel, maybe? With rapiers, and skill and style?
It was nothing like that.
John and Stephen charged at each other like maddened bulls, roaring loud enough to make the glass in the massive window panes rattle. They crashed together, with no technique and all savagery, pounding viciously at each other, fingers grown claws, rending and tearing. Despite his order to stand down, the elder Tyrrell stood back, a faint smile on his face. His gaze fell on you for a moment and your lip curled back.
You’d never sneered. At anyone - not that you’d seen anyone but Black Heart for the last decade - but your rage sent a bolt of heat up your spine. This disgusting, evil creature had held your mother hostage, treated her like a mistress, tricked her into having … you. A spurt of black fluid shot past you, splashing a bit on your cheek.
John had lost his metal arm. Somehow, Stephen had torn it free, sending the platinum prosthetic sailing, landing against the wall hard enough to bury it half inside the stone. Stephen was straddling him, howling like a jackal and sending his bloody fists into John’s face.
“No!” You lunged at them but an iron bar just under your breasts hauled you back.
“This is their fight, vessel,” the elder Tyrrell whispered into your ear, his copper-scented breath making you heave, “stand here and look pretty. This is your purpose.”
Black blood flowed from John but he finally managed to hook a leg around Stephen’s and flip him, bringing up his elbow and caving in the left side of the spoilt prince’s face. An excited murmur from the crowd, swaying in interest as the arm keeping you in place began tightening in rage, making you heave for breath. You weren’t going to scream. You weren’t going to distract him. John had regained his strength and was pulverizing the other, the sharp sound of bones cracking dimming into muted thuds as he turned Stephen into a bag of ichor and bone.
“Adam- Master, please!” Your mother latched on to his arm trying to get him to loosen his grip. “You’re hurting my daughter, please stop!”
“I’ll tear his head from his worthless carcass if you do not release her.”
John’s voice echoed across the hall, making the vampire congregation stir and flutter, like a herd feeling the predator enter their huddle. He stood tall, his remaining arm holding a boneless Stephen up by his neck. His haughty, pretty face was an unrecognizable mush, blond hair black with his blood.
His father hissed, an inhuman noise that was far more truthful than his pretense at humanity. His arm tightened reflexively and it was your mother who shrieked. “Stop! Damn you, let-”
A high squeal, like the sound of a slaughtered hog, rose and his arm abruptly released you, dropping you to your knees as you wheezed, trying to force air back into your lungs. John was standing over the Vampire King, his fist gripping the older monster’s sinewy throat.
“Take my son to the Healer,” Tyrrell recovered quickly, snarling his orders. John tossed him aside like a soiled rag and came for you.
He lifted you abruptly, cradling under the curve of your bottom. “Are you all right?”
So composed…. You nodded, a little dizzy. He was covered; absolutely black with his blood and Stephen’s, gashes and cuts knitting themselves back together as his ocean eyes looked you over.
“Can you speak? Did he break any ribs?”
With a huge heave of air, you managed to gasp, “I’m all right. I don’t think anything is broken. But-” you put your hand on his torn face, “what about you? How can you still be standing? Your arm, it’s-”
“I’m fine,” John almost sounded gentle, it was such an odd thing when paired with his brutalized body. “I’ll take you from here.” He strode across the room, even though you cringed as you felt his ribs scrape and grind against themselves as he moved.
Ripping his platinum arm from the wall, he turned to look at the clot of blood-drinkers, still staring at you both, their painted faces blank with shock. “My Claim is secure,” he announced coldly, “there will be no other challenge by Night Brethren law. And if your son-” John spat disdainfully at the elder Tyrrell, still seething, eyes swirling crimson, “ever comes near her again, I will tear him limb from limb and leave him in the sun for the animals to feed on his worthless carcass. Is this clear?”
