16. SIXTEEN
sixteen
Dante is straining with every sinew to hold the wardrobe in place. The door bows inward from the assault on the other side—coordinated heaves that pound mercilessly.
I’m so fucking sick of fighting vampires in my nightclothes, I think as I use the serrated portion of my blade to saw at the bottom of my nightgown.
The beautiful fabric tears, piling at my feet.
A necessary sacrifice; I can’t risk losing mobility with the silk tangling around my legs.
Still, my heart squeezes as I kick away the buttery shreds that had minutes ago swirled like clouds around my heels.
Splinters explode with the next impact, and Dante throws a quick, estimating glance over his shoulder at me.
He’s only buying me time. Perhaps he’d have a better chance of holding them off if one of his own kin wasn’t aiding these humans.
Every few blows, there’s an earth-shattering BANG that makes Dante stagger before heaving his weight back against the deteriorating piece of furniture that is now our last line of defense.
Legs now freed, I sprint for my personal effects, wrenching free the slotted leather belt buried in my bag.
I fix it around my waist, sheathing a second dagger and a razor-sharp stake into their designated slots.
Six vials of holy water lay at the bottom, but I don’t have time to seize them before the doorframe explodes inward.
The wardrobe topples over with a deafening SMASH, and Dante is sent sprawling onto his side with a groan.
I backpedal toward him, putting space between us and the gathering assailants filling the doorway.
Thomas strides in, followed by a group of weathered, grim-faced villagers clad in sturdy but well-worn leather armor.
I count nine men, each of them moving with a disciplined efficiency that confirmed my suspicions.
Hunters. I recognized a few faces in the line that formed, including the ones Dante had hypnotized outside.
Their clothes are damp, drenched in foul-smelling mud—and they’re pissed to all hell.
“Any luck on the search, boys?” Dante’s callous smile breaks into a grimace. “Gods, you reek.”
The curly-haired hunter bares his teeth. “You bastard!”
At the protest from the others, he whips out an uncorked flask and flicks his wrist, sending clear liquid ribboning toward Dante.
Though he dodges the brunt of it, some of the water still catches his skin, sizzling with an acrid scent.
Holy water, then. If the hunters had any doubt about Thomas’ claims, there could be none left now.
Dante shuffles back, glaring—a vicious red line across the left side of his face when he lifts his head. I know he’d murder them on the spot for vanity alone.
“Ah-ah, he’s mine to take,” Thomas cuts in, stepping in front of the hunters.
“Do what you like to the wretch, but he comes with me.” His smile is nothing short of devilish, looking at Dante like he’s the fatted calf prepared for a feast. He’s got a short sword sheathed to his hip—clearly not taking any chances this time.
“We have so much catching up to do, brother.”
Another small step forward sets me on edge. I mirror Thomas, edging closer to Dante with both my silver blades bared.
“Out of the way, thrall,” one of the hunters snarls.
“I told you,” Thomas says. “She’s not his thrall. Not yet, anyway. But she’s protecting him, all the same.”
I scan the vampire before me, searching for any weakness, any favored stance, and come up empty.
The best I can gather is that he’s probably right-handed.
The wounds Dante inflicted on him earlier have healed seamlessly.
Thanks to the stable boy’s blood, Thomas is at full strength.
For once, I feel a beat of gratitude that I allowed Dante to nibble on my neck tonight, too.
“I’m an agent of the Corvus Order,” I growl, tapping the emblem engraved on my belt with the hilt of my dagger.
I look at the hunters, seething and beseeching all at once.
“This vampire is my mission—a mission that may cleanse this country from all darkness—and you’re interfering, you bumbling idiots.
Get out, now, or help me put this one”—I thrust my right blade in Thomas’ direction—“back into the hellish grave he deserves.”
Murmurs race through the group—reverence and superstition in equal measure.
“I don’t take orders from a woman,” crows a heavy-set hunter. He grinds the base of his spear into the floor, lips curling. “Let alone one stupid enough to fall for a vampire’s whims.”
“Careful,” Dante cuts in. “You keep talking to her like that, she’s going to get stabby.”
“There was a time when Corvus was as nightmarish a name as the bloodsuckers they seek. But time has passed. That name doesn’t carry the weight here it used to,” the curly-haired one adds. He shifts his weight, like he’s still bolstering for leadership.
“How about a dozen trained slayers stringing you up by your ankles, watching you bleed out over days?” I fire back.
“Jesus.” Someone mutters under their breath.
“Told you,” Dante says.
“Funny, I just see one,” the spear-wielding hunter says, glancing around mockingly—as though women might melt into formation from the walls. “Where are your other warriors, hm?”
He ambles closer, and I don’t miss the way his greasy eyes linger on my bare legs, where the jagged hem of my nightgown rests above my knees. “You’re fiery, but I’ve broken in worse mares than you, girl.”
Men are the fucking worst.
“Do not test me.” I bare my teeth, glaring up at him.
Thomas groans loudly. “You bugs are entertaining, but I’m short on time.” He draws his short sword, starting toward Dante. “I want to be the bigger person, but God—I have to admit I’m looking forward to hearing your screams. When I drag you back to Father’s side… It will be like a symphony.”
A dozen coordinated shinks and clicks make him pause—the nine hunters have all raised their weapons, angled toward both vampires. I realize they’ve been waiting for him to distance himself from their line.
“Change of plans, leech,” the foremost hunter says, eyes glinting behind his thick wooden stake.
“For your sake, you’d better be joking,” Thomas grits out, looking from face to face. He shifts his stance, lifting his chin. My heart sinks as the air charges with invisible energy, making hairs rise on my arms. He’s hypnotizing them.
“You will heed my every word. You will follow me—”
Thomas’ velveteen words cut off into an incoherent snarl as one of them lunges, hurling a flask of holy water across his face and chest. Flesh singes, wisps of acrid smoke lifting off his olive skin.
“Those tricks won’t work on us. Not now that we know exactly what the two of you are.”
Thomas’ fangs flash as he anchors himself into position—eyes darting between Dante and the others, effectively surrounded. “Filthy ingrates. I will leave your disemboweled, bloodless corpses for your widows to see.”
He moves with unfathomable speed. One moment, he’s standing before us—the next, his sword is stuck so deeply up the curly-haired hunter’s throat, the steel tip protrudes from his eye socket.
The remaining hunters ripple in horror—then surge into action. Chaos explodes as every wound muscle springs into motion, a clash of leather, flesh, and metal.
Thomas flings the body to the side, whirling toward Dante with hate in his gaze. Another hunter plunges a knife into Thomas’ stomach. He winces, but it doesn’t slow him—merely shoving the man with force enough to send him sprawling against the opposite wall.
I anchor my bare feet against the wood floor, glancing to the window as Thomas rapidly closes the distance to us. Dawn is about to break in mere minutes. If I can get Thomas outside, perhaps through a window, the sunlight will burn him alive.
I don’t have a chance to test this theory, as that spearwelding hunter lunges for me with a roar. I whirl to the left, crossing my daggers in a defensive X to block his staggering blow.
“Traitorous bitch,” he snarls.
My arms tremble as he presses his considerable weight down on me. I can’t hold this stance long—he knows it, too, his gaze turning wicked.
“Not too late to retreat,” I rasp out.
He almost laughs—and then I shove my weight forward, disengaging our blades with a cry of effort. Vampires, men—they’re all the same in assuming a smaller frame means I’m less dangerous than they are.
I drop low—the hunter doesn’t expect that. The moment he falters, I strike, lodging my thigh behind his knee like a clamp. Seizing the front of his reinforced doublet, I pull him forward as my leg kicks out and forces him to buckle. My legs lock around his waist, twisting as he falls.
I’m already on top by the time he pulls an enraged breath, and I slice the edge of my blade over his throat before another hateful word can surface. His spear thumps onto the floor as he clasps both hands over the line of gushing crimson. The hunter’s eyes bug in horror, suddenly pleading.
“Keep pressure on it,” I mutter, dismounting his prone form.
A deafening crash rises over the turmoil. I whirl to find the fourposter bedframe shattered and Dante plucking himself from the broken support beams—like he’d been shoved hard enough to maim a grown man. A human man, anyway. For vampires, this is merely an opening strike.
Thomas stalks toward him mercilessly, but they’re separated as more hunters swarm them.
Two of them target Dante, seizing him while he’s still spitting out splinters.
One of them attempts to pin his arms behind his back, successful just long enough for his partner to produce a flask—sloshing its contents over Dante’s freshly healed face and chest, drenching his shirt.
His flesh singes anew, his face screwed up in agony.
“Enough,” he says through his teeth, “with the fucking holy water!”