by Karen Chance
And saw the sky crack open.
Not with lightning, or thunder, or anything else that would have made sense. But slashed. As if a giant talon had caught the edge and ripped its way across the stars.
It was about the time the storm swept over the landscape, gobbling up the hill, the dancers and the bonfire. And then heading straight for us.
“I think…I think she found us,” I gasped, only to have Louis-Cesare grip my face, turn it to his.
“No!” Blue eyes locked with mine. “See me, see me.”
And he kissed me, even as we were plunged into a torrent of slapping wind and wailing outrage. And it was a damned good kiss. My stomach did a weird, tilting cartwheel, my hands tightened reflexively on his shoulders, and one of my legs went around him, pulling him to me, in me, as what sounded like a thousand banshees wailed by overhead.
I barely heard them. If falling into the moment helped us to gray out, then we must be almost invisible, I thought, as he growled and covered me with his body. Taking me as he’d stripped off the glove earlier, smooth and sure, in one long thrust.
It hurt, to be stretched so abruptly, filled so completely. But the sheer animal satisfaction I took was greater. This was mine, the hard body above me, the sweetness on my tongue, the hands bruising my hips. And I met him stroke for stroke, arching up as he flexed into me, in deep, powerful motions that sparked coiling warmth in my gut, melted my spine.
Mine, I thought deliriously, as a shadow swept over us, like a cape had been thrown over the sky.
Mine, as my hands stroked up that strong back, velvety and warm, where every dip and line of muscle fit sweetly into my palms.
Mine, as the storm trembled in the air around us, and shook the earth beneath us.
“Mine,” I murmured, as blue eyes met mine, wide and startled. And then closed again as he took my breath in a kiss so consuming that I barely noticed when the storm continued on toward the horizon, the midnight wings showing vague starlight through in patches as it passed overhead.
As it missed us.
“Yours,” Louis-Cesare groaned, pushing his face into the crook of my neck as his movements turned erratic inside me, as my body clenched around him, as the storm banked and turned, like some great bird, somehow zeroing in on our location despite everything.
And then the hill cracked open, the earth fell away beneath us, and we were falling.
Chapter Thirty-eight
I landed on my own, Louis-Cesare being torn away in the plummet. And I landed hard. I slammed into what felt like concrete, only to hear the pop and feel the sandpaper grind of bone on bone beneath me.
It was my hand. And of course, it was the right one. Not that it mattered, since I wasn’t being given a chance to go on the attack anyway.
A blow caught me as I tried to rise, and a kick to my ribs had me retching. And then that damned boot was back, visible for a split second before making contact with my skull. The impact was hard enough to send me tumbling, and instinct had me putting out my injured hand to break my fall.
Not the best idea, I realized, as a sickening wave of pain hit me.
Come on. You’re better than this! I told myself harshly, as I stumbled trying to rise. But I didn’t appear to be listening. Maybe because something, either the crack to the head or the mental powers I was really starting to envy, was adding another layer of hell to the fight. Suddenly, even blinking took an effort, and anything more ambitious felt like I had a two-hundred-pound weight attached to every limb.
Unfortunately, my assailant didn’t seem to have that problem. She was kicking me over and over in the ribs, in almost the same spot, because I was too winded and in too much pain to move out of the way fast enough. Not good, I thought, as the stabbing pain of a broken rib suddenly cut into my side.
I snarled and kicked out with a foot, catching what felt like the softness of a stomach. But it bought me maybe a second at best, which wasn’t even enough to get back on my feet. And then another rib went, and another, and I lashed out again—blindly, because I couldn’t see a damned thing. The darkness was complete, as much as if I really had fallen into a pit in the earth, and the only things I saw were the stars exploding behind my eyes.
Until a single spear of light shot through the darkness.
It was tiny, like the glow of a very dim flashlight, but I started crawling toward it anyway. Until a hard kick to my chin had me flipping over, and another destroyed a kneecap. And if I hadn’t managed to roll to the side, the boot that stabbed down where my chest had been might have killed me.
Although that outcome was looking pretty inevitable right now anyway. Because I just plain couldn’t move fast enough to avoid the blows that were quickly beating me to a pulp. I cried out again, in pain and sheer fury—
And the pinprick of light turned into a flood.
I blinked, barely able to see past the glow, but managed to make out the figure of a man. “Louis—” I began thickly, reaching out—
But it wasn’t.
The dark silhouette was tall but not that tall, broad but not that broad, familiar…and even more familiar. Dark hair, dark suit, but eyes that were glowing even brighter than the illumination behind him. Like twin stars in the gloom, brighter than I’d ever seen them.
Mircea, I mouthed, because I couldn’t seem to draw a breath. But he started walking forward anyway, slightly off course, but in the right general direction. And every step he took parted the darkness more, like a curtain being drawn back on a stage. Until I could see again.
The light behind him resolved itself into the dim view of the harbor that I was really beginning to hate. But it was also the only way out. And if I could reach it…
And maybe I could. Because, suddenly, I wasn’t being attacked. I struggled up on my good arm, broken, bleeding, peering around for an assailant that wasn’t there anymore.
Maybe because she had found a new target.
I looked back at Mircea, just in time to see him stumble. And a bloody slash, like the cut of a sword, appear on the front of his formerly white shirt. He ignored it, moving forward another few feet, only to be hit again. And again. I watched, horrified, as gashes that looked almost black in the strange light appeared on his face, his hands, on the arm he held out in front of him, across his eyes.
And then a massive blow sent him staggering.
“Mircea!” It was barely a whisper, practically inaudible, even to me. But never underestimate a vampire’s hearing. Because his head jerked up, and the wedge of light around him narrowed, focused—and spilled all around me.
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, a glistening pale blue lifeline.
Or maybe not.
Because Mircea wasn’t getting much closer. He should have been able to cross the distance between us in a heartbeat. Instead, he was barely walking forward, and getting shredded in the process, his coat already a tattered mess, his shirt drenched red. And a panic gripped me like nothing I’d ever known.
Because I’d never seen him injured so easily. Because it didn’t look like he could see me, or knew exactly where I was. But mostly because he wasn’t fighting back.
And then he stumbled again, going down to one knee.
“Go!” I croaked, because I couldn’t scream. But if he heard, he gave no sign. And he wasn’t leaving.
Of course he wasn’t, I thought savagely, dragging myself to my feet. When had he ever been anything but a stubborn son of a—
My knee collapsed, dumping me on the floor. Stupidly, I tried to stand again, and for some reason, it worked that time. Every step was agony, my ears were ringing too loud to hear anything and I couldn’t fucking breathe. And the light from the small wedge that Mircea had opened kept moving around, like it was playing keep-away, although that was probably more from my wildly zigzagging course.
But I was up.
I was moving.
And so was he.
How he was doing it I didn’t know, but hearing wasn’t the only thing you sh
ould never underestimate about master vampires.
Or dhampirs, I thought, gritting my teeth while spots danced in front of my eyes and one of my own ribs stabbed me in the side and the damned leg collapsed again. So I crawled, because there was nothing between me and my goal but pain and fuck pain. Because Mircea might not be defending himself, but he was doing a good job of keeping the bitch’s attention on him.
Too good of a job, I thought, as he collapsed to both knees, his clothes a bloody mess, his face unrecognizable.
I didn’t cry out again, because I didn’t have the breath and because it wouldn’t have helped and because I wasn’t going to give her a warning. I was just going to kill her. I didn’t care what it did to me, I was going to fucking kill her, I thought viciously, as the light flickered and the wedge narrowed and Mircea didn’t look at me.
He still didn’t, even as the most savage beating I’d ever seen continued, throwing him around the sparkling blue light, crushing limbs and shattering bone and sending splatters of blood arcing into the air like rubies as I crawled and slipped and closed the gap. But not completely. Not before the bitch somehow got a clue, a dark shadow turning my way as she suddenly remembered that, oh, yeah, I wasn’t dead yet.
Not yet, I snarled to myself, getting my good leg under me as she flew my way. And then falling and rolling and lunging and grabbing—
A hand slick with blood and cold, too cold.
And then falling again, into nothingness that suddenly bloomed into light so bright that it tore a gasp from my throat.
Or maybe that was Radu. I couldn’t see him because there was something in my eyes, but I identified his cologne. And then he was pulling me back and I was flailing and fighting and not getting anywhere because I had no strength.
Until he abruptly let me go, and I dropped like a sack of sand, hitting my chin on something I identified as the edge of the bar. But I managed to swipe a shaking hand over my eyes in time to see Louis-Cesare, lying unconscious on the floor; Marlowe, yelling at the half dozen guards who had just flooded the room; and Mircea—
Mircea in a widening pool of blood—eyes, mouth, ears, nose, all gushing bloody streams onto his dark suit and the pale sofa and—
And for a minute, I thought he was dead.
And I think Marlowe did, too, because as soon as he’d cleared the room, he grabbed Radu’s arm. “Let up,” he said, his face terrible. “Wait for the healer—”
And then Radu—Radu—jerked Marlowe up and threw him at the window, sending his body crashing through the heavy drapes and the glass behind them. It set the curtains swaying, back and forth, like the pendulum of a ticking clock, intermittently highlighting the tableaux on the sofa in beams of light-filled dust.
“Hold him,” Radu snarled at me, the voice nothing like his usual dulcet tones.
I was already moving as he spoke, scrambling across the floor, because my leg seemed to work now. Unlike my brain, which could only focus on that pale face. But I grabbed Mircea, who like me, seemed to be whole physically. But the blood—God, so much blood—and he was deadweight now—
“Pay attention!” Radu snapped, jerking at his sleeve as Marlowe vaulted back into the room.
And stopped, because he’d figured out what was going on the same time I had.
“Will he?” I breathed, my voice strange in my ears.
Radu ignored me. And then he bared an arm that looked nothing like its usual plump, well-toned self. It was corpse-pale, with ropy muscle and prominent veins running purplish blue under the surface. And fingernails that were suddenly a lot more pointed, a lot more talon-like, than the perfect manicure he’d had a second ago. Like the face that was suddenly older, more gaunt, and the hair that was finer, duller, with wide streaks of silver striping the brown.
I stared at him, and then around at the room, because it was that or look down. And I didn’t want to look down. Didn’t want to see that usually so-poised face splattered with blood, the sharply intelligent eyes closed, the fine mouth slack and agape. It would make it all too real, this strange, dust-filled room, with the ticking clock and the swinging drapes and the tasteful furniture I didn’t need to remember because nothing was going to happen in here of importance today. Nothing.
And then Radu sliced his arm open from elbow to wrist, using one of those knifelike nails. Blood welled up, not red like a human’s or a young vampire’s but dark, dark, almost black, with dull crimson glints when the intermittent light hit it. It didn’t gush like human blood, either, but seeped down his skin, molasses-thick with age and power.
He held the bloody limb to his brother’s pale lips, pressing them tight around the wound, forcing the fluid inside.
Blood of family, I thought dizzily, my own blood icing in my veins. The last resort for a dying vampire. Mircea’s own strength, distilled in the body of every vampire he’d ever made. And reinforced in Radu’s case by five hundred years of love, shared pain, struggle and sacrifice—
None of which did him any good if he wouldn’t take it.
“His mouth was full of blood already, I don’t know if…” someone babbled, and I snapped my lips shut when I realized it was me.
“Drink,” Radu rasped, a taloned hand digging into his brother’s shoulder. “Drink!”
But Mircea didn’t.
Marlowe stood by the couch, staring. Face white, eyes dark and burning. For once, the mask was gone, and he looked as stunned as I felt. And as horrified. And something else that I finally recognized—belatedly, because I’d never seen it on that face before.
He saw me looking and blanked again, but his voice was rough when he spoke. “How?”
“I…He wouldn’t defend himself,” I said, my voice still sounding strange. High and weak—and shrill with fear. But unlike Marlowe, I couldn’t seem to mask it.
Nothing, I told myself savagely.
“Against what? What did this?”
“Dorina.” There was no point in denying it now. “She was after me, but he got in the way—”
“No,” Radu said, not looking up from his brother’s face.
“What?”
“Mircea said it wasn’t you—her. It was almost all he managed to say before—”
“Then why didn’t he defend himself?” Marlowe demanded, before I could. “If he wasn’t worried about hurting—”
“That is one of the reasons for using a guide,” Radu told him abruptly. “Even a gifted master cannot hold open such a connection and also defend against attack. It takes too much concentration—”
“He had a guide!”
“Louis-Cesare was knocked unconscious,” Radu snapped, gesturing at him. Where he still lay, because no one had bothered to help him.
Somehow I didn’t think he’d mind.
“He was never trained for this,” Radu added. “And it is not easy, in the best of times. And what he did—I am surprised he lasted as long as he did.”
“Then Mircea should have damned well waited until he woke up!”
Radu looked at him angrily. “Dory was under attack—”
“We’re under attack. The whole damned lot of us! We can’t afford to lose him, Radu!”
“As he could not afford to lose her.” Radu smoothed down his brother’s hair. “We have lost too many, through the years.”
“She was the one attacking him!”
Radu looked up, eyes glowing in fear or anger or pain—or all three. “You heard him. He said no.”
“He would,” Marlowe said, looking at me. And making me wonder if this hadn’t all been a waste. If I would even make it out of here alive.
Right now I didn’t care all that much. I didn’t care about anything but the blood dripping onto the sofa. Unused.
“It wasn’t you,” Radu said softly, turquoise eyes meeting mine.
“Then who?” I asked, my voice weaker now.
Because I was bleeding, too. I’d barely noticed, but slippery trails were trickling from my ears, down my neck, soaking the once fine material of th
e suit. More was filling my eyes, along with something else that I blinked away.
“Then who?” I demanded, louder.
“Mircea didn’t know,” Radu said softly, gaunt hand covering mine, where I gripped his brother’s shoulder.
No. My father’s. Where I held my father’s shoulder, I thought angrily, grasping it tighter. And somehow managing to be furious at myself, at everyone, at no one, all at the same time.
“He said he thought someone was using you for an anchor,” Radu told me. “That they were narrowing in on you as if you were their guide. In order to attack you.”
“What? How?”
“He didn’t say. He was concentrating on finding you; his reports were…sporadic. I’m sorry, Dory; I don’t know any more. When he wakes—”
“If he wakes,” Marlowe said, and then stopped.
As if there was nothing left to say.
No. NO, I thought, and shook the limp body in my arms, causing the head to fall back onto my shoulder. Tears splashed his face, mingled with the blood, streaked the perfect features that were marble-like in their beauty. And in their coldness. The tears were mine; I didn’t care.
“Drink,” I begged him, as the room grayed out and the rushing in my ears got louder and he just lay there, draped across my lap, Radu’s blood cascading down his chin.
So much power, so much life, right there, and he wouldn’t take it.
My anger suddenly found a target, and it was the man bleeding on the sofa. “Marlowe’s right. He should have left me,” I said harshly.
“You know he wouldn’t do that,” Radu admonished.
“Then he’s a fool.” My head was spinning, my temples pounding, but I didn’t care. I only cared about the man on the sofa. And the anger. So much anger bottled up for so many years, and finally spilling over.
“Coward,” I spat. “Fool and coward!”
“Dory!”
“It’s the truth. Five centuries of life, of fighting and conniving and scheming and clawing and this? This is how it ends?”
Nothing.