Elsa Bloodstone: Bequest, page 1
part #3 of Marvel Heroines Series
Elsa Bloodstone: bequest
I leapt forward and sideways, throwing myself into an aerial even as I pulled out one of my throwing knives. I flung it toward the attacker who’d tried to ambush me from behind. It dropped the thorny branch it had been carrying and clutched at its face, squealing in agony.
Two more ratmen who’d followed it ran at me. I jabbed the first one in the face with my nicely pointy shovel, making it recoil. Then I pivoted and walloped the second one across the side of the head so hard it fell to the ground in a heap, motionless except for the occasional twitch. Before the first one could recover, I pulled out my machete – matte black and sharpened to a monofilament edge – and swung, smoothly separating its head from its body. I walked over to the one that was still rolling around squealing and, with a single well-placed stroke, silenced it too.
I straightened up and shook the blood off my machete. “Well,” I said, staring around the darkness with a bright smile. “I do believe this party’s started now.”
Also available
Marvel Heroines
Domino: Strays by Tristan Palmgren
Rogue: Untouched by Alisa Kwitney
Legends of Asgard
The Head of Mimir by Richard Lee Byers
The Sword of Surtur by C L Werner
Marvel Untold
The Harrowing of Doom by David Annandale
Xavier’s Institute
Liberty & Justice for All by Carrie Harris
First Team by Robbie MacNiven
FOR MARVEL PUBLISHING
VP Production & Special Projects: Jeff Youngquist
Associate Editor, Special Projects: Caitlin O’Connell
Manager, Licensed Publishing: Jeremy West
VP, Licensed Publishing: Sven Larsen
SVP Print, Sales & Marketing: David Gabriel
Editor in Chief: C B Cebulski
Special Thanks to Nick Lowe and Jake Thomas
© 2021 MARVEL
First published by Aconyte Books in 2021
ISBN 978-1-83908-072-2
Ebook ISBN 978-1-83908-073-9
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover art by Joey Hi-Fi
Distributed in North America by Simon & Schuster Inc, New York, USA
ACONYTE BOOKS
An imprint of Asmodee Entertainment Ltd
Mercury House, Shipstones Business Centre
North Gate, Nottingham NG7 7FN, UK
aconytebooks.com // twitter.com/aconytebooks
For Damian, who believes I can do anything and celebrates every milestone, and for Janet and Jes, who are stellar mentors and even better friends. I hope you all enjoy Elsa’s fantastic adventures.
One
Glasgow Cathedral’s City of the Dead was absolutely lovely in the moonlight.
That was the first thing that struck me as I looked out over the rising hillsides of the necropolis, thick with marble tombs and monuments to people who were only remembered for their historical headstones these days. The burial ground glowed beneath the full moon, with various memorial spires and their stone-faced angels reaching up to heaven as if trying to coax it into their hands and capture it for their centuries-old corpses.
To be fair, the place was quite lovely during the daytime, too. Glasgow Necropolis was a proper old-fashioned Victorian cemetery that embraced its identity as a repository of not only the dead, but also of art, beauty, and faith. The city had done a rather good job of keeping it up, I thought as I scanned the shadows, looking for the slightest hint of movement. This was a top-notch place to be interred. Anyone who tried to tell you there was nothing good about being dead had clearly never visited Glasgow.
Right now, however, it was a less than ideal place for a dirt nap if one was looking forward to eternal rest. A clan of ratmen had recently installed itself in the City of the Dead, taking over tombs, desecrating memorials, and generally leaving their filth everywhere. I turned my face into the wind and inhaled deep. Yes, there it was – a rotting garbage-heap sweetness that shouldn’t be there. Ratmen were nowhere near as fastidious about cleanliness as their vastly smaller rodent cousins, and the ever-increasing stench had been the first tipoff to the people who ran the place that something wasn’t right. Ratmen claimed territory in stages, and stage one was spreading their filth about and seeing if anyone noticed.
The second tipoff had been the poor guide who’d gotten a bit too close to the nest the dirty grubbers had made inside a stately grave along the main tour route. One moment he was chattering away about “architectural influences from Jerusalem that account for the repeating pattern up there, d’you see the pattern?” and the next moment a snarling ratman bashed him over the head with an old iron cross pilfered from one of the other tombs.
People had proceeded to run about screaming, and two more visitors were injured in the melee – one bitten, while the other one tripped over her own untied shoelace and sprained her wrist when she hit the ground. One thing led to another, and a few days later the necropolis was closed for “restoration” while the archbishop of Glasgow got ahold of me.
It was rather flattering, honestly, if a bit below my pay grade. I hunt monsters, the bigger and badder the better, and ratmen are an annoyance at best. But the old gent who’d rung me up had asked so politely, and they were as generous with their stipend as a group operating on donations could be, so I’d agreed. Blast my bleeding heart.
Hmm. Nothing to be seen from here other than a flock of rather atmospheric ravens sitting in a tree about fifty meters away. I sauntered deeper into the necropolis, shouldering my shovel in a casual-ready position that wouldn’t cause alarm. It felt rather strange, walking into a fight without my customary firearms. Back in Britain or not, I was resourceful enough to get my guns into just about anywhere, but the church had begged me not to bring them into the cemetery.
“Think of the statuary!” the gentleman in charge of running the place implored with tears in his eyes. “You might be responsible for destroying something that’s nearly two hundred years old! Not to mention endangering the Cathedral, which is far older! How would you live with the guilt?”
“I’ve taken out plenty of things a lot older than that for kicks,” I’d blithely informed him. “Like vampires,” I added when the man looked at me in horror. “Some of those blokes have been around for millennia, you know.”
Jokes were never as fun when you had to explain them.
Regardless, now I was walking into a melee with a shovel over my shoulder, a machete under my trench coat, and several smaller knives stashed here and there, just in case. And one, just one tiny little P90 semiautomatic rifle filled to capacity with hollow points. As a last resort. In my profession it paid to have backup plans.
The ground crunched slightly beneath my boots, the stiletto heels scraping along the path. I wasn’t trying to be quiet. Quiet wasn’t the point, after all, and it wasn’t exactly my strong suit to begin with. I hummed a bit of the song that had been playing on the radio as I’d driven in – and I’d clearly spent too much time in America lately, because driving on the correct, left-hand side of the road had felt a touch awkward – and absently touched the bloodstone choker at the base of my neck. It seemed to pulse as I petted it, the stone as warm to my fingertips as my own blood.
I didn’t need to be holding it in my hand to access its power – keeping it around my neck was just fine – but it felt nice to give it a nudge every now and then as I was walking into a situation. It was almost like promising an old friend that we’d meet up for a pint later when things were less busy.
Ah, there. That was the smell of ratmen, carried over to my hypersensitive nose on the night breeze once more. It might have been filtering in from miles away, given how huge the necropolis was, but no, this was fresher than that. More immediate. Ratmen could hide, but they couldn’t stop smelling like a skunk had fallen in love with a dirty diaper and they’d shacked up in an old garbage can together.
Bin. It’s a bloody bin! Lord, I’d been in Boston for so long that Americanisms were infiltrating my vocabulary. Before long I’d be “pahking the cahr in Hahvahd Yahd.”
I wasn’t going to waste my time following the ratmen’s rather nasty trail of breadcrumbs when I could simply call them out to face me. Ratmen were rather simple creatures, but there was still a touch of intelligence within those beady eyes, and they were sensitive to matters of hierarchy. And me? I was here to royally disrupt their current leadership model. And look amazing while doing it, thank you very much.
I tossed my long, vermilion ponytail over my shoulder and pulled a chocolate bar wrapper out of my pocket.
“Right, you lot,” I shouted into the night. “I understand you’ve decided to claim the City of the Dead as yo
There was complete silence for a moment before a raven croaked in the distance. A second later the whole conspiracy of them flapped noisily out of the tree they’d been settled in, perching all over the necropolis on different tombs like they were guests at an ancient Roman coliseum. Ready for some bloodshed, boys? They’d be getting their fill of entertainment before long.
“Come on now, you overgrown vermin, I don’t have all night.” I pulled out a battered old cloth I used to clean my guns and threw it a few feet away. “Are any of you going to bother putting up a fight, or will I be hunting you down while you cower like the frightened little mice you are?”
A low growl resonated against the nearest tombs, harsh and angry. I smirked. Finally. “There we are, that wasn’t too hard,” I cooed. “Honestly, I thought I’d have to start insulting your mothers before one of you useless, slack-jawed, dull-fanged excuses for a proper ratman would gather your nerve. Come on then, let’s have a look at you, hmm?” I took my last bit of affrontery ammunition, an hours-old banana peel, already dark brown and rotten-sweet, and waggled it in the air. “Or you could just run like a bunch of baby bunnies back to your hidey holes.” I flung the banana peel into the air ahead of me, and–
Snap! Whip-quick jaws snatched it out of the air before it hit the ground. The ratman responsible for eating my challenge stalked forward through the shadows, slinking low along the ground before finally stepping into the light. It was tall for a ratman, and its head came up to my shoulder. It had a set of claws on both front and rear paws that were half as long as my machete. Its bared teeth gleamed yellow in the moonlight, and the pair of rudimentary pants and torn, stained vest it was wearing clearly indicated it as the alpha of the pack. Only the smartest ones figured out how to wear human clothes, and they used their special knowledge as a bludgeon against the lesser rats. Perhaps literally in this case – the ratman alpha held a three-foot wrought iron spike in its hands. Its eyes gleamed maliciously.
I grinned. “Oh yes, we will have fun, won’t we?” Two meters behind me and thirty degrees to the left, I felt the air shift a little. Clever things. “Good boy,” I whispered. “What’s your name, then?”
It snarled something unintelligible. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as whoever was behind me crept closer and closer. “What was that, love? Gnar-shnar-grawr-ugh? You’ll have to tell me again. I’d hate to have the wrong name inscribed on your very own tombsto–”
Whoosh! I leapt forward and sideways, throwing myself into an aerial even as I pulled out one of my throwing knives. I flung it toward the attacker who’d tried to ambush me from behind, and the knife went right into the smaller ratman’s left eye. It dropped the thorny branch it had been carrying and clutched at its face, squealing in agony.
Two more ratmen who’d followed it ran at me. I jabbed the first one in the face with my nicely pointy shovel, making it recoil. Then I pivoted and walloped the second one across the side of the head so hard it fell to the ground in a heap, motionless except for the occasional twitch. Before the first one could recover, I pulled out my machete – matte black and sharpened to a monofilament edge – and swung, smoothly separating its head from its body. I walked over to the one that was still rolling around squealing and, with a single well-placed stroke, silenced it too.
I straightened up and shook the blood off my machete. “Well,” I said, staring around the darkness with a bright smile. “I do believe this party’s started now.” I could see more of them now, sliding out from behind decorative crosses and obelisks en masse. Their dark, muddy fur rendered them almost invisible against the ground, but the power of the bloodstone not only made me stronger and quicker than any ratman out there, it sharpened my senses considerably. Anyone who thought they could sneak up on me with impunity would pay for their assumption with their head.
I cast a quick look at my boots – ugh, arterial spray, of course right after I’d gotten these all polished up. This job would be so much simpler if I could just shoot everyone from a distance. “Bloody period architecture.” Well, there was nothing to be done but carry on.
“Right, who’s next?” I pointed my machete at the alpha rat, who still hung back, his constant sputtering snarl making him sound like an old lawnmower about to run out of fuel. “How about you, your highness?” I ran toward him, but swiftly found my way blocked by a trio of large, imposing ratmen, all wielding tomb decorations – or rather, desecrations, as the case was now. “Ah good, I do so love a volunteer.”
Three were more challenging to handle than two, but only by a hair. They tended to get in each other’s way and didn’t bother to charge as a group, waiting for me to make a move before any of them reacted. The simplicity of such killing should have been a relief, an easy job to help pay the bills, but really it was all a bit… well, boring.
Then again, that was life lately, I reflected as I smashed the flat of my shovel into the belly of one ratman while executing a pirouette that left the other two without their right and left forepaws. I finished all three of them off with a flourish of my blade, then moved on to the next clump of excrement-scented enemies.
Boring. What I would give for a decent fight with a monster that thought with its brain instead of its claws. Another bout with Fin Fang Foom would set me up for weeks! Or some eldritch horror climbing out of a Manhattan sewer who only wants to see the world end in a rain of blood and terror – now that would be invigorating!
“Instead I get you lot,” I grunted, thrusting my machete through one ratman’s head as I walloped the one trying to sneak up behind me with the point of the shovel. It warbled a pained howl and fell over onto its face, clutching its groin. “Just like a man,” I tsked. “One good shot to the crown jewels and you’re down for the count. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the consistency, really–”
A smaller ratman flung itself at me from a twelve-foot high monument. I kicked my right foot into the air and speared the wiry creature right through the throat with my stiletto heel. Ugh. Efficient, but so messy. I shook the body off and continued, “But the bollocks are always going to be an issue for gents. And nice try, you blighter, but you’ll have to do better than that to get the drop on me.”
The falling ratman had distracted me for a moment, though, and the rest of the clan took advantage of that time to tighten their ranks around me, armed with pieces of marble, nail-studded boards, and whatever else they could find. The closest ones hesitated in their approach, which made sense given they were stepping over the bodies of their brethren to get to me. Those behind them insistently pushed them forward, though. They’d made a ratman snare, and I was square in the middle of it.
“Bloody hell, you lot multiply faster than real rats.” I grinned, showing all my teeth in a dominant display. “Perfect.”
I swung into action, widening the circle around me with a looping swing of my shovel, then leapt straight up into the air as the horde charged. The first layer of ratmen toppled into one another, and then I was back in the middle of the fray – or above it, rather, using their heads and backs as stepping stones as I hopped over the mass of them to the outer edge of the circle.
Every footstep evoked a fresh cry of pain from my living sidewalk. “Enjoying the physics that result from me putting fifteen hundred pounds of pressure per square inch on your spine, pet? Isn’t science glorious?”
The challenge with foes like ratmen was simply in handling their numbers. They weren’t innovative or challenging fighters one-on-one, but even a swarm of butterflies could be a problem if they landed on you all at once. As long as you could avoid being surrounded, you had options.
“Of course, this would have been so much bloody simpler if I could just shoot you all.” Every jostle of the P90 beneath my coat was like a siren’s call, but I was determined to handle this the old-fashioned way. I’d promised, after all, and the statuary was rather lovely, if overwhelmingly morose.
