And then it came to him. As Alexander struggled to rise, Qarakh took his hand away from the ground. He felt a sudden loss as energy drained out of him and his perceptions returned to normal. Alexander seemed to leap to his feet; he came striding toward Qarakh with death in his eyes.
The Gangrel sat back and reached for his left boot. He didn’t have time to be neat about this. He gripped the leather and tore it to pieces and then did the same to his right boot. Scraps of shredded leather clung to his feet, but for the most part they were now bare.
Alexander bent down and retrieved his sword so swiftly that it appeared the blade flew upward into his waiting hand. But before the Ventrue could strike, Qarakh planted his feet on the ground and stood up. Strength surged through him once more, and Alexander again moved at what appeared to Qarakh to be normal speed.
As the Ventrue drew back his sword for another blow, Qarakh stepped toward Alexander, moving in so close that the prince no longer had room to wield his weapon. Before Alexander could do anything, Qarakh grabbed him by the throat and squeezed as hard as he could, concentrating all the power granted him by the smith into his hands. At the very last, he hoped to snap Alexander’s neck and render him helpless long enough to finish off the ancient Cainite. Though as strong as Qarakh felt, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he severed Alexander’s head with his bare hands, just like a child popping off the head of a flower with a flick of his thumb.
Yes! his Beast urged. Do it now!
Alexander dropped his sword once more and tried to pull Qarakh’s hands away from his throat, but he was unable to. The Ventrue’s face grew red, then purple, and his hate-filled eyes bulged forth from their sockets. He snarled and spat, a wild animal caught in a trap it could not escape. He then balled his hands into fists and slammed them into Qarakh’s ears.
Bright bursts of light flashed behind the Mongol’s eyes, and his ears roared with a sound not unlike the breaking waves he’d heard while in the Grove of Shadows. Alexander continued hitting him, but Qarakh ignored the pain and continued to squeeze. He thought he could feel the bones of Alexander’s neck grind and begin to give way under the pressure. A few more moments and the battle would be finished.
As if realizing this as well, Alexander stopped striking Qarakh’s head. He gripped the Mongol’s sides and then lifted him off the ground as easily as a mortal might lift a small child. Qarakh’s feet were no longer touching the earth.
He continued to choke Alexander, but his hands were far weaker than they had been a second ago, and the Ventrue no longer appeared to be in distress. His usual Cainite pallor returned to his face, and he smiled.
“You are as great a deceiver as I, Qarakh the Untamed.” His voice was a raspy whisper at first, but as he spoke, it gradually returned to normal, the internal wounds Qarakh had inflicted healing with supernatural swiftness. “Only sorcery could allow you to stand against me as an equal. It seems your Telyav friends decided to borrow a page from Greek legend, eh, Antaeus?”
Qarakh had no idea to what legend the Ventrue referred, and he didn’t care. He needed to break of free of Alexander and get his feet back on the ground once more. Qarakh hit, kicked and clawed, but no matter how much he struggled, he couldn’t loosen the prince’s grip. Alexander continued to hold him in the air, only inches above the ground. But inches or miles, it made no difference. If Qarakh couldn’t touch the earth, he couldn’t draw on the smith god’s power.
“It appears we have reached an impasse,” Alexander said. “Like a man who has caught hold of a poisonous snake just behind the head, I am safe as long as I maintain my grip, but if I put you down to reach for my sword, you will bite me.”
Qarakh let go of Alexander’s throat and clawed at his eyes, but the Ventrue turned his head back and forth with such speed that all Qarakh managed to do was scratch the prince’s cheeks. Vitae welled forth from the gouges, the scent different from any Cainite blood Qarakh had ever smelled before. This was vitae aged like the finest of wines for two millennia, suffused with time and power. The Mongol began to salivate, and he heard once more the words of prophecy given to him by the ancient Cainite at the Obertus monastery.
Victory is in the blood.
Qarakh realized then that the Cainite with the stars in his eyes had not been speaking of diablerizing Aajav; he had been referring to the vitae of another.
Alexander’s eyes grew wide with fear, and Qarakh knew the Ventrue sensed what he was thinking. But unless he could find a way to free himself from Alexander’s grip, he could not—
Free me! the Beast roared inside him. I will slay the Ventrue, but only if you release me from my chains!
Giving in to the Beast would mean allowing himself to fall into unchecked frenzy. Qarakh thought of Wilhelmina and the awful transformation she had suffered. A similar fate might well await him if he were to give his Beast the freedom it desired.
Release me!
Qarakh inhaled the heady bouquet of Alexander’s blood. He had come too far, fought too hard, sacrificed too much to turn back now. He freed his Beast.
At last!
Qarakh’s body shimmered as it shifted into wolf form. The alteration in size and mass dislodged Alexander’s grip, and the gray wolf fell, landing all four feet upon the ground. Power flooded
