VIII - Bloodletting go

New York History Museum. Standing idly at the entrance under the heavy hailstorm, Darla read the note again. "New York Museum. Important." The door was open, though it should be closed and locked. She felt it. Someone ancient and powerful was around. But it was a different kind of feeling. It was not like the usual buzz in her head. It felt more like a quickening unleashed. But at the same time, it was something different from that. Whatever it was, she knew who was there. There was a blackout and it was intentional. She followed the feeling, sensing how it grew stronger as she approached. She found something that mesmerised her.

Victor was there. He was sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, and his arms resting over his knees. His eyes were closed. Around and over him, there was a bluish glow. The shape of an incorporeal dragon blistered above him, engulfing him. She approached. His eyes opened and a blue glimmer sparkled in his eyes. The dragon disappeared as he stood up.

"What was that!"

"The manifestation of my quickening. Us immortals can channel our quickening when we learn to give it a purpose."

"The purpose being...?"

"Overwhelm another with your power... distract you... fight another one using the same technique..."

"Kronos knew it, right? And he tried to..."

"Possess you via his quickening. He channelled his power in the last second."

"He succeeded?"

"Do you feel like 'the end of time'?" he asked, growling mockingly at the last words.

"Is it complicated?" she queried, grinning at his previous question.

"You just commit everything inside of you to that, and it will erupt. It takes practice but you did it without it."

Darla halted, suddenly making sense. "The ladybirds."

"Yes. All I still had to teach you when you left me you've learned it by yourself. Now that you've learned to channel, there's nothing more for me to teach you." He paused. "You're no longer my apprentice."

Darla gulped. There was something in his voice that she found disturbing. She felt a strange feeling inside of her, and she clenched her fists.

"Why am I here?" she mumbled.

"It's settling time." He muttered.

"Victor... I... won't fight you."

She turned and began to move away.

"It is not your choice, Darla. It's mine."

"But I won't fight you!" She heard a vicious cacchination behind her. She turned. Victor was wielding his broadsword, glaring unkindly at her. Darla looked around, and hurried to a rapier that was behind a box of glasses. She hit with her elbow and the glass broke. She grabbed the weapon and held it in her hands. She began to move her arm to see how the weapon felt, and how it flew. It was a light weapon, lighter than any sword she had ever wielded. She just hoped it worked. "I said I don't want to fight you, Victor."

"I am the Kurgan, you silly b---h!"

Darla's eyes widened as she saw the massive figure of her mentor lunge at her violently. She avoided her blow and tripped on something. He attacked again, slamming his sword heavily at her side, missing her by less than a centimetre. She scrambled up and took distance. The Kurgan grinned evilly. She grimaced in pain, realising he was serious.

"That's all you've got?" she provoked, hoping to make him angry. Always taunt your enemy, if rage takes him over, he will make a mistake. He had taught her that, but she doubted that would truly work against him.

He lunged at her again. His thrust went against her chest. She gave a step back and inclined her whole body backwards. The sword grazed her tee shirt and made a minimum cut on it. She pointed the spear at him and aimed at his stomach. He put his arm up and blocked the blade, but his arm was gashed. He delivered a blow that missed her by nothing.

"Nicely done, Darla." He said mirthlessly as he extended his arm and squeezed his fist. The wound began to bleed and the blood fell down to the floor. "Watch me bleed, as I've done forever. Now let me go and avenge your father."

"Stop this, Victor. Please!" she cried.

"One of us will leave walking, the other in the coroner van." Kurgan shrieked. "I'd fight me if I were you, pretty."

He lunged yet again. Darla blocked a downward blow and avoided the posterior left thrust aimed at her neck. She kicked him in the chest ineffectually. He punched her hard and that sent her back stammering. He slammed against her. She was out of balance, and exchanging blows with him had tired her out. She put up her spear and parried a first attack, but the second made her spear fly away and the third one impaled her. He pushed forward and stuck her against the wall. She gasped.

"Victor..." she whispered painfully.

His face sobered. She could see reproach in him, but not anger. He had wanted her to fight him and she had not. Whatever. She knew she could not do it. She could not kill him. Not only he was stronger, she also cared too much for him to take his head. He wanted her to kill him, but she was selfish, too selfish to let him go. Even more when there was only one way to do that.

"You're still a silly stupid naive girl." He muttered, stepping away from her. His broadsword held her firmly clung to the wall. He removed it and she fell heavily. She raised her eyes and saw him move towards a wooden structure. She scanned around, looking for a sign that said what it was. She saw a French flag on a small poster nearby and realised what he was up to.

"No... no..." she cried as high as the pain allowed her voice to come out, which was not much.

-----

The Kurgan, Victor Kruger, moved with determination towards the wooden structure. He had contemplated the possibility that Darla would refuse to fight him. The girl had managed well against him. Had she truly wanted, she would have eventually brought him down on his knees. But she had not, so he had to use plan B. Still, she was the best candidate for what he had in mind. She had always been.

The structure had a solid rectangular base large enough for a man to kneel in. On one of the narrower sides, two large and narrow lines extended upwards, and a thin wood between them rose only a few metres up, with a half circle. A man kneeling would find the perfect resting-place for his neck therein. A lever, connected by chains to the upper part to the structure, was next to the one of the large wooden lines, at arm's reach. He removed a human-looking figure without head and threw it away. He knelt, put his head in the circle and stared at the basket before his eyes. Inside, a face made of papier-mâché and straw looked at him panicky. Even that thing devoid of life or feelings feared him. He grinned and gave one last glance to his apprentice. She was calling for him.

He had seen the creator of the machine killed by his own creation. That French guy Guillotin begged for his life till the last second. He chuckled as he thought. Would he reach heaven? Would he wait in the purgatory? Would he be plunged into hell? What it would be like to be inside another immortal? Inside of her? Time to find out. God, Satan, here comes the Kurgan! He pulled the lever and heard the heavy blade above him whistling as it slid down towards his neck.

END