Midnight's Daughter(88)
“Take her and go!” I snarled. Heidar silently passed me the sword, threw Claire over his shoulder and disappeared into the vines. I didn’t see any of the dark shapes break off to follow them, which was both reassuring and a concern. Did they have others posted around the estate, to catch them unawares?
Then something dove at me out of the boiling sky. I lashed out at it instinctively, going on hearing rather than sight, and Geoffrey’s head rolled to the ground at my feet. I nudged him with my foot, and anger raged in the still-living eyes. A master-level vamp could heal a wound like that, given half a century or so of excellent care. But Geoffrey wasn’t a master, or at least, he sure didn’t fight like one. A second later it didn’t matter anyway. A booted foot slammed down on his skull, cracking it like a walnut and grinding it into the mud.
I jumped back, sword high. And looked up into pewter-colored eyes that shone with power like flickering starlight. Recognition was instantaneous, and I dove for him, but the sword literally jumped out of my hand and flew to him. I stumbled as a wall of cold slammed into me, so sudden and so chill that I had trouble breathing.
The Fey examined the weapon with a small smile. “The sword of kings, in the hands of a half-breed whore.” The voice was low and musical, and strangely beautiful. “How… disturbing.”
I managed to get to my feet, although the cold seared my skin like a branding iron. I glanced around, but there was no way out. In every direction, moonlight glimmered off pale faces.
“Do not be concerned.” The Fey spoke to me, but his eyes were on the weapon. He tested it experimentally, gracefully slicing the rain. The clear surface glowed in the dim light, reflecting lightning along its razor edge like a warning. “Once, long ago, this blade took the head of a Svarestri king. I would not dishonor him by using it on you.”
The burning chill was leaching my heat quickly. If I didn’t do something soon, I’d freeze where I stood. But considering the odds against me, conversation seemed the best chance to give Claire time to get gone. “You should maybe use it on whoever set you on this wild-goose chase.”
“What do you mean?” He was still more interested in his new toy than in me. I decided that was insulting.
“I mean, dumb ass, that I may be a half-breed, but I’m not a witch, I’m not a null and I am definitely not a six-foot redhead.”
The Fey’s head snapped up at that. “What?”
I bared fangs at him. “See these? Not standard-issue witch equipment. I’m a dhampir.” I grinned. “You’ve been chasing the wrong girl, genius.”
I guess he decided that the sword wasn’t so holy, after all, because the next second, it was underneath my chin. “Where is she?”
“Why? You want to pay homage to your future king? ’Cause it’s a little early.”
“The half-breed son of that Blarestri buffoon can never rule, and neither can any child he sires on another mongrel.” The sword point bit into the skin of my neck. “Give me what I need and you may live through the day. Otherwise…”
“I heard this speech once this week already. The other guy did it better.”
“Have a care, dhampir.” The Fey’s voice was no longer musical. “You do not know with whom you are dealing.”
Then again, conversation has never really been my forte. “Neither do you,” I said, and lunged. I ducked under the sword of kings and went straight for the bastard’s jugular. I threw everything I had into it, all my speed, and my fingers grasped the unexpectedly warm skin of his neck. But before my hand could close, something touched me, sliding down my spine like the blade of a cold iron knife. It took my speed, my strength, everything—as though all my senses had been cut off at once. I couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel. Everything was gone. Everything except icy nausea and bitter fear.
And then my senses returned, and it was worse. It was agony, like a thousand tiny shards of ice spearing me at once. My throat spasmed as his hand closed over it. He wasn’t trying to strangle me—he wasn’t even pressing hard enough to bruise—but it felt like I was suddenly choking on ice. My eyes told me there was nothing there, but my throat grew numb, and my gag reflex kicked in, closing the airway completely.
“You wish to test yourself against me?” The voice was flat and hard, like ice over cold, dark water. “Very well.”
His hand came to rest on the front of my shirt, lightly, barely touching me, but it felt like he had spread his fingers and pushed them deep inside my flesh. Not tearing and ripping as an animal might, but in a slow creep like the onset of winter, stealing color and warmth and life. My lungs froze; I couldn’t have taken a breath even if my air passage had been open. My blood slowed down to a sluggish icy soup. That phantom touch sank farther into my body, burning like dry ice, creeping into hidden recesses I hadn’t even known existed until they cramped with it. Frost crept up my spine; ice encased my heart.
I fell, bones reverberating with a jarring shock when I hit the ground. It was no longer soggy, but hard as a rock with a thick layer of ice. The frozen mud glittered white and crystalline against my fingertips as my hand fell uselessly in front of my face. I was vaguely surprised that it didn’t shatter into pieces on contact, like glass. I started to black out, from pain and lack of air.
“The Svarestri command the elements.” The Fey kicked me onto my back with his foot, then crouched beside me. “Do you know the four elements, dhampir? Water, in one form, you are coming to know well, I think. Shall we try another?”