by Amy Miles
William cries out as the window implodes behind him. Vladimir’s grip loosens as he ducks inside his coat, trying to shield himself from the glass shards. Roseline leaps behind a table, knocking out the legs to cover herself.
Glass buries into the tabletop as something enormous rolls across the floor before leaping upright. Bare feet stand unaffected by the carpet of glass underfoot.
“William, run!” Roseline kicks the table at the new assailant. Vladimir turns and flees up the staircase at the back of the room. Reaching over her shoulder, Roseline retrieves her swords and sprints after him. Vladimir whirls on the top step and hurtles his dagger down at her. Roseline leaps onto the narrow railing and jumps out of its path.
Vladimir curses and darts out of sight. Roseline takes the stairs three at a time. She braces as she reaches the top step and peeks into the room. Nothing.
Lowering her blades, she cautiously moves across to the center of the room. The wooden floor creaks underfoot. Roseline’s breath hitches as she waits for the attack, but it never comes.
Once she is sure that Vladimir is no longer in the room, she rushes for the door. A glint of a sword appears in the doorway. Roseline drops to her knees and slides under the blade. Her slick leather pants glide along the polished floor. She arches her back and the tip of her nose barely clears the razor sharp blade.
Stabbing her sword into the plank floor, to keep from sliding into the room beyond, Roseline counter turns and kicks Vladimir into the wall. Plaster cracks as his head smashes into it. A coat of arms overhead slams down onto Vladimir’s shoulder. He curses and kicks it before racing away.
Yanking her sword free, Roseline gives chase down the darkened hallway. Candlelight flickers from sconces every ten feet. When Vladimir reaches the end of the hall, his feet stutter on the waxed floor as he tries to take the corner too fast. Roseline jabs her sword at his unprotected side and slices through his elaborate coat. Gold threads flutter to the floor as he turns to fight.
His chest rises and falls, panting, as he struggles to parry each attack. “You’ve improved,” he grunts, thrusting his sword at her heart.
Roseline bends backward, narrowly avoiding his perfectly aimed jab. “It’s amazing what three hundred years of rage will do for you.”
With a loud bellow, Vladimir lunges and Roseline sidesteps his attack, backing into a doorway. Vladimir’s blade buries deep into the solid wood molding that clings to the corner’s edge. He grunts as he tries to pull it free.
Holding her swords at her waist, Roseline spins on her toes, her blades whirling like a rotating saw. Vladimir kicks at his sword hilt to free the blade. The tip of Roseline’s sword slices through Vladimir’s coat, carving off one coat tail before he drops to the ground and kicks out her feet.
Vladimir is already on the move. He leaps through an open doorway and crashes through a window onto the third floor terrace. He rolls over the back of a brunette immortal who staggers toward the railing, blinded by the blood gushing from a head wound. Vladimir shoves through the fray of hunters and immortals fiercely locked in a battle to the death.
Roseline leaps to her feet and pursues him onto the terrace. She spies Vladimir making his way through the overcrowded terrace. Grabbing a wooden beam overhead, she swings out onto the slanted second story roof that runs parallel.
Below, swords clang and arrows whistle through the air. The cries of the dying rise into the night’s sky. Shadows of the battle-worn soldiers flicker off the whitewashed walls. A wide expanse of gold illuminates the courtyard with brilliant light, catching her eye but she pulls her gaze away, focusing on the obstacles before her.
She dashes across the roof, careful to keep her heels raised so they do not catch on the rust colored tiles. Vladimir charges across the terrace, shoving immortals and hunters alike over the railing. Their screams cut off abruptly as they hit the ground below.
Roseline leaps onto a large black sconce near the middle of the terrace. Her fingers grip the metal brace, swinging back and forth. She releases and flies up onto the terrace only a few feet behind her husband.
“Grigori, watch out!” She shouts.
Nicolae’s commander flattens to the floor as Vladimir barrels past, his sword leveled to mow down anyone in his path. Roseline reaches Grigori in two bounds. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” he breathes deeply, steadying his nerves. “Go on. He’s getting away.”
Roseline nods and dashes back into the house. The brilliant golden light from outside momentarily hampers her vision as she enters the dim room. She pauses in the doorway to let her eyes.
Her chest rises and falls in silent pants as she listens for Vladimir’s movements. It’s hard to block out the battle raging outside. The instant her vision clears, she ducks low and draws near to the great room.
Roseline pauses with her back pressed to the wall and fights to still her nerves. The great room is large, dotted with various pieces of furniture and wall to ceiling bookcases. A large fireplace adorns the wall to her right while the other is plastered with ornate golden caricatures of Vladimir’s lineage. With soaring wooden beams along the ceiling to perch in, she is at a disadvantage if Vladimir has taken to higher ground.
Inhaling deeply, Roseline prepares herself. She tucks her blades in close, using her body to shield their metallic glint as she dives into the room. The whistle of an arrow reaches her just before the gust of wind passes by. The tip of the feather grazes her cheek.
Rolling to her knees, Roseline hides behind a high backed sofa. Its hideous floral pattern mocks her, reminding her of the life she has been forced to endure in this castle for over three centuries, but tonight, all of that changes.
She looks to the ceiling, searching. There is no sign of Vladimir.
Her heart hammers in her chest. Where is he? From her vantage point, she cannot see where he is perched, but judging by the angle of the last arrow, he must be up there.
Another arrow is released. She sprawls to the floor, sliding under a large beige chaise. Her swords slide across the room sized rug, spinning out of reach. Her shoulder pops as she stretches toward the nearest blade. An arrow burrows into the rug only a hairs width from her forefinger.
Roseline retracts her hand, frantically glancing around for a new weapon. A cluster of wooden chair legs impairs her view. Another arrow releases. Roseline flattens to the floor as it pierces through the bottom of the chaise before coming to rest less than two inches from her nose.
Wiggling away from the arrowhead, Roseline scrunches up near the end of the chaise. She cranes her head to look to the ceiling. The crisscrossing beams are empty. Where is he?
There’s only one way to find out.
Sucking in a deep breath, Roseline claws her way out from under the sofa. She knows she is as exposed as she feels. At any second, she expects an arrow to pierce her flesh but none takes flight. She smiles. Vladimir is out of ammo.
Slowly spinning to encompass the entire room, Roseline searches each nook and cranny. “This is poor form,” she taunts, ducking to look inside the unlit fireplace. She never could understand the appeal for a fireplace when immortals detest the heat so much.
“Won’t everyone be shocked to hear that the great Vladimir Enescue is too afraid to face his wife in a fair fight? A coward,” she laughs, turning to examine the wall of windows at the opposite end of the room. Towering maroon curtains hang from above. Perhaps he is hiding within those.
Vladimir growls as he leaps down from the darkened chandelier to her left. His boots slam into Roseline’s back, knocking her to the floor. The tip of his sword presses into her cheek. “I am not afraid.”
“No,” she smiles against the carpet fibers, “but you do have the biggest ego on the planet.” Her hands and knees brace against the floor as she pushes off. Vladimir shouts as he hurtles back over the chaise.
Roseline snatches his fallen sword and leaps on top of him in the fluttering of a heartbeat. His nails rake down her arms, scoring deep channels of
flesh away as she points her blade at him. Rivulets of blood seep down her forearms. She blinks, weakened by the pain.
Grunting, Roseline fights to maintain her grasp on the hilt as blood slickens around her fingers. His eyes flicker behind her and she hesitates, wondering if someone else has joined the fight. Vladimir clamps his teeth onto her wrist and squeezes. Roseline howls as she beats against his head, aiming for his ear but he only clamps down harder.
The blade falls from her fingers and she is knocked to the side. Vladimir scrambles for his sword and bounds away. Roseline dives for a chaise, snatching a pillow before she rolls away. Ripping the gold trimmed pillow apart, she wraps the scratchy fabric around her wounds to staunch the blood flow, favoring her wounded wrist.
“I expected more from you,” Vladimir taunts. His voice comes from behind her and slightly above. He is in the rafters again.
Roseline searches the room for a new weapon. It is doubtful that she can reach her swords now that Vladimir has taken up position between them. Her gaze lands on the fireplace.
Twin golden candlesticks flicker on the mantel. Wax drips over the side as the candle burns low. An idea blooms as Roseline contemplates the finesse it will take to pull this off. Now all she has to do is provoke him.
“It’s a shame about Lucien,” Roseline calls, pressing back against the chaise as she tosses the pillow stuffing aside. She searches the ceiling. Once again, Vladimir has vanished within the shadows. “I know how hard it is to have a sibling taken from you.”
She moves to the end of the couch, preparing for her final jab. “I intended to send a good riddance card when I arrived in London. Guess it slipped my mind.”
Vladimir roars, vaulting down from the rafters. Roseline dives out of the way as he flattens the spine of the chaise. His feet puncture the material, momentarily imprisoning him.
Roseline leaps through the air, snatching the candlestick from its home. She whirls around to strike. Vladimir laughs as he disengages from the chaise springs. “Looks like your flame has fizzled out.”
Smoky tendrils rise from the blackened wick. Roseline smirks. “Who says I wanted the candle?” She tosses it aside.
The muscles in her arms coil then release as she drives the candlestick through his chest. Vladimir stares at the golden spear protruding from his sternum, the hot gold cauterizing his flesh. Pain glazes his eyes as he offers a strangled laugh. “You missed.”
“No,” she says, turning away, “I didn’t.”
She leaps, whipping her leg around and the sole of her boot shoves the makeshift weapon straight through Vladimir’s heart. He falls backward, an expression of disbelief freezes on his face. She stares down at him as she stamps on the candlestick, burying it into the wooden floor. Roseline closes her eyes as she listens to Vladimir’s heart take its final beat.
Silence is bliss.
Chapter 39
Roseline sinks to her knees. Tears well up in her eyes, falling freely over her blood-smeared cheeks. A tingling begins in her chest, spreading out through each nerve ending in her body. Tossing her head back, she laughs, soaking up the sweet feeling of freedom.
A pool of Vladimir’s blood soaks into the rug, inching her way. Roseline wipes her face and rises, detesting the thought of allowing his filth to stain her again.
Loud footfalls sound in the hall. Roseline crouches preparing to fight. A dark shadow appears in the doorway. She gasps, rushing forward.
“Malachi, how are you alive?” She winds her arm around his waist, easing him to the floor.
“I’m a lot stronger than I look,” he smiles weakly. He coughs, holding his chest.
“But how did you get that rock off of you?” Roseline’s eyes sweep over his stunning face. Bruises swell under his skin. His collarbone and left shoulder protrude awkwardly out his back, but he is miraculously back in one piece.
“Must be all of that angel blood you think I have,” he croaks. His eyes close against the pain. Roseline eases his ax from his hand and settles it across her lap.
“What can I do?”
Malachi’s smoky gaze falls on her flushed cheeks. His lips peel back with self-loathing. “I need blood.”
Roseline glances behind her, cringing at the thought of using Vladimir’s. No, she will not allow him to taint anyone else.
Using the underside of her hair, Roseline swipes it down her arm, clearing away brick debris. “Take mine.”
Something flickers in the back of his eyes. Regret? Gratitude? Something more?
She cannot decide as he nods and presses his lips to her wrist. The excess of human blood flows easily from her veins. Malachi gasps around her arm as his shoulder pops back into place. His collarbone crunches as it fuses back together and his bruises rapidly fade. His teeth retract from her flesh as he wipes the blood from his chin.
“Better?” she asks, feeling weakened by the bloodletting.
“Much.” Malachi rips a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt. With a gentleness she had not expected from such a powerful man, Malachi binds her wounds. His fingers linger on her flesh. His electrically charged touch radiates along her forearm. “Thank you,” he whispers, retrieving his ax.
The solemn tone in his voice surprises Roseline. She reaches out, gently lifting his chin. “What is wrong?”
He pulls away from her touch. “I’m so sorry. You were right about me. About everything-”
Malachi cuts off as a figure appears in the doorway. His hands clasp around Roseline, yanking her into his chest.
A towering man squeezes through the narrow space. Colorless eyes peer down at Roseline. She shivers, shocked by the sheer size of the man. His head is bald, all except a black ponytail that falls over his shoulders. His bare chest is a patchwork of black tattoos and scars.
Roseline backs away. “Run!” Malachi shouts.
She does not need to be told twice. Lowering her head, Roseline runs straight at the floor to ceiling glass windows on the opposite side of the room and jumps straight through. Glass tinkles on the roof tiles as she lands, rolls to her feet and sprints ahead.
Malachi lands behind her and rushes to keep up. Roseline ignores the battle cries from below as the giant bursts through the window and out onto the roof behind them.
“Head for the fourth floor,” Malachi shouts. Roseline flips up onto the walkway. She hurtles over bodies that line her path.
When she reaches the doorway, leading to the upper floors, Roseline turns back. Malachi barrels toward her like a rampaging bull, but the scarred man does not follow. His gaze has shifted to something on the ground.
Roseline leans over the railing and gasps. Nicolae is no longer fighting alone. “Gabriel!”
His sun-kissed head raises to meet her gaze. Her heart explodes in her chest as she climbs onto the railing.
She can’t believe he is here. Did he come for her? How did he know she would be here?
Thousands of questions pour through her thoughts, but her single answered prayer consumes her mind. He is alive!
His face is different than when she last saw him. The planes of his face are more defined, the remains of his youthfulness have melded into that of a handsome young man. His hair is longer with flecks with gold and an array of browns throughout.
A light tan clings to Gabriel’s skin, setting his ice-blue eyes off perfectly. His chest is broad, his arms girded with strength. Never before has she seen anyone so beautiful. Even from this height, his blood smells sweet and fresh, filled with promise, calling to her heart as she leans over the edge.
His smile is all she sees as she leaps for him.
Strong arms lasso around her waist and pull her back. “What are you doing?” Roseline screeches, tugging against Malachi’s iron grip.
“It isn’t him, Roseline.” Malachi yanks her over the railing and onto the walkway. She rakes her nails down his face, fighting back. “You just want it to be.”
“You’re wrong. It is him!” she cries, bucking wildly in his arms.
Gabriel’s face clouds over as he watches their interaction. He braces to leap onto the roof, but an enormous man with brilliant lavender eyes holds him back. Gabriel struggles against his hold, screaming her name, but the man is unrelenting.
Roseline stretches out her hand to him. “Gabriel!”
In the depths of his eyes, she sees confirmation of his love before she is wrenched away.
Chapter 40
Gabriel fights against Elias’ immovable grip. “Let me go! I have to get to Rose!” he cries.
Panic slips over him as he watches her hand yanked out of sight, still fighting to reach him. Who has taken her? Why won’t Elias let him go to her? He can save her!