by Karen Chance
Ten minutes later, most of a vampire erupted from the water. He was still on slow-time, the sensory distorting trick his kind used when confronted with multiple enemies at once. And so, for a second, he saw everything: the droplets from his hair glittering like diamonds in a shaft of moonlight; the puddles of blood on the water, like spilled wine; the moss blowing in the wind, like sirens' hair . . .
And then time snapped back to normal, and with it came a roar of mingled pain and fury that shook the treetops.
And nothing else, because everything that could leave the area had already done so.
Which was just as well, considering that his practically shredded right leg gave way a moment later, sending him plunging back underneath on a wash of agony.
Motherfu-
Sir! Liam's alarmed voice echoed in his head, yet another pain. Are you --
Be silent!
But, sir --
And don't contact me again until I damned well tell you!
Liam terminated the conversation, but a thread of disapproval, like a silent hmmph, reverberated through Kit's brain. He shut his eyes. Liam would make sure he paid for that later. That wasn't the way a proper master responded to his long-suffering chief of staff. Who was only trying to help his quest and preserve his life at the same time, which he was honor bound to do for both Kit's and the family's wellbeing . . . .
He'd heard it all before.
He was going to hear it again.
But not right now.
After a moment, he scraped himself off the bottom and slowly followed the bitch up the beach.
He collapsed onto a patch of odorous undergrowth, the skull of the last craggy bastard who'd decided he'd make an easy meal still in his hand. He tightened his grip slightly, hearing it pop under his palm with a satisfying crunch. The body was back in the bloody pool, along with thirty or more others and a good deal of his flesh.
A very good deal.
After a few moments, he rolled over, staring at the stars just visible through the moss laden trees, and swallowed.
Well, you wanted to bleed, he told himself.
He didn't look around at the empty patch of forest. He knew she wasn't there. He'd glimpsed her struggling up the bank, visible only when she moved, a liquid outline against a night dappled with shifting shadows.
And limping.
Looked like the poor thing had twisted her ankle, he thought, and for some reason, burst out laughing.
It felt good, despite everything, so he did it some more. He didn't know why. Probably something to do with his screwed up psyche, which had never processed emotion the same as everyone else.
Not even when human. Especially not when human. Kit stared at the mossy canopy above -- a soggy, drippy canopy now, as it had started to rain -- and reminded himself that things could be worse.
He could be a child again, watching a succession of siblings die of one thing or another. From his sister Mary when he was four, to all his brothers, one after the other, to his baby sister Jane. Who his parents had seen fit to marry off when she was a slip of a girl of twelve, and who had predictably died in childbirth a year later.
He'd only found out about that after he was Changed. He'd returned from the rigors of his own untimely demise to discover that the Reaper had done his work on the sweet, cherubic faced child. The one who had dogged his steps as a toddler, clinging with a chubby hand to his one pair of good hose until he'd been forced to tell her to stop. And then crying because he was the only one who'd ever been kind to her, the only one who saw a daughter as having any value at all.
So he'd given her the hem of his coat to hold instead, and let her follow him around. And she had, right up until he went away to school to please his social climbing harridan of a mother. Then to London, and beyond . . . .
And by the time he returned, she was dead. He hadn't known how to grieve then, either. But he had known how to kill; oh yes, he had. Like her fat oaf of a husband, who had wanted her dowry but swore not to touch her until she was old enough, and had died for his lies.
No, Kit had never learned how to grieve the normal way.
But his would do just fine.
He felt the last great rent in his leg close up and tighten, the muscles finally getting their act together and reconnecting. He rolled to his knees - carefully -- and took stock. He was covered in gore, had lesser wounds all over his body, and had lost a good deal more blood than was recommended.
But then, so had someone else.
He was on his hands and knees, his head hanging down almost to the ground, which was the only reason he caught it. But swamp or not, scent blind or not, half dead or not, there was one thing a vampire didn't miss. And a closer inspection of the tangled weeds and mold and mud beneath him confirmed it.
Below the smell of his own blood, there was a trace . . .
Of someone else's.
And, once again, Heinrich had been right. It was odd. He smeared a bit on his finger and tasted, just to be sure, and yes. It was familiar in a way he didn't understand.
It was also old.
Very old.
He paused for a moment; he had not expected that.
The few misbegotten half breeds he'd come across had been young and barking mad. Probably accounted for why someone normally staked them, often before they reached double digits, the way you'd put down a rabid dog. For what else could you possibly do with it?
But that hadn't happened here. This dhampir had lived three, perhaps four hundred years, maybe even more; her blood was hard to read. It wasn't vampire, it wasn't human, and even if it had been, he'd never met any three hundred year old humans to compare. And yet she seemed functional, at least enough to buy a bag of cursed toys to plague him with.
He took a moment to absorb that.
And then he called Liam.
Dhampirs. Old ones. What do we know?
Old ones? Liam's mental voice sounded puzzled. I . . . thought there weren't any old ones.
So did I, Kit said grimly. Find out.
While Liam communicated with the office, Kit concentrated on that unusual scent. And discovered another hint further up the bank. It was barely a single drop of blood, too small even to see.
But then, he didn't need to see it, did he?
And it seemed she had more than a twisted ankle to worry about.
We have no dhampirs on record older than sixty years, Liam informed him, a short while later, while Kit was nosing through the undergrowth. Although, I'm sorry to say, our information is not complete. They disappear into the human population too easily, switching locations, identities, even appearance at the drop of a hat. And we don't have the same advantages when tracking them as we do for our people. We usually only hear about them when they cause trouble.
"Oh, this one is good at that," Kit murmured.
This one? You mean you've found her? Liam's mental voice sharpened.
Let's say I plan to make her acquaintance shortly.
Yes, sir. I can have backup to your position in --
No. Kit got unsteadily to his feet, putting weight on the newly regrown muscle. It held. I'll call if I need you.
Sir--
That will be all, Kit said, and ended the communication. That wasn't going to help get him out of the dog house, but right then, he didn't care. He took another moment to check out the evening's souvenirs, but none were an issue. Except for the leg, which was still spongy, but would heal on the way.
He set off through the forest at a slow jog, dodging trees and ducking under vines, finding the more or less solid ground between patches of marsh. His speed picked up as he learned how to move here, as his strength started to return, as his nose woke up in a way it never had, attuned to the faint traces of blood that might as well have been a trail outlined in neon.
As he started closing in.
Chapter Nine