Blood Heir (Blood Heir Trilogy, #1)(38)

Stanys palmed his dagger. There was a challenge in his eyes as he took a step forward. Then another. And another.

He was testing the waters, seeing how close he could get before she used her Affinity. Seeing if she still could.

Ana’s legs trembled with the effort of standing. The world swayed as she grasped for her Affinity. Please. She’d hated her Affinity, the thought of using it…but now she needed it. There was nothing else standing between her and the blade in Stanys’s hand.

Her head split with pain. Ana dropped to her knees. As she lifted her head to look at Stanys, she realized that her Affinity had reached its limit. She might as well have been trying to grasp empty air, the twisting wind.

No, she thought, shaking, her head pounding with each footfall of the approaching man.



Stanys’s shadow fell over her; she could see the fur of his boots from where she knelt, the curve of his blackstone-steel blade that parted the rain. Her hands shook. Was this it?

The mercenary’s dagger flashed. Lightning streaked across the sky, illuminating his blade…and the shadow behind.

Stanys swung his blade down.

And met metal. A shrill screech rang out in the night. A battle cry.

“Move!” Ramson shouted. With a last spurt of strength, Ana rolled away from them just as Ramson lunged forward.

Ana lifted her head and watched as Ramson Quicktongue, self-serving con man and egotistic bastard, fought for their lives.





The mercenary charged, dual daggers glinting like the eyes of a demon through the heavy rain. Ramson parried the blow head-on, grunting as he narrowly dodged the swipe of the second dagger. He twirled and slashed out. The tip of his sword swerved in a graceful arc—but nowhere close to the mercenary.

His opponent pounced again, twin blades unrelenting. Metal clanged as Ramson blocked one dagger. This time, the second bit him in a vicious slash across his forearm.

Grimacing, he pivoted out of the way, backing up as far as he could without drawing the man closer to the witch. Blood dripped from the wound in his arm, mingling with the rain. Shit, he thought, readjusting his slippery grip and shaking his head to clear the dizziness from Igor’s blow earlier. Shit. His opponent was taller and stronger.

And Ramson was rusty.

Think, he told himself desperately. He needed to buy time.

His enemy lunged. Ramson met the twin blades with a blow of his own, slashing downward. Metal screeched. He twisted his blade sharply, using a technique he’d learned from his swordmaster, momentarily locking the two daggers together. The bounty hunter looked up at him and bared his teeth.



“Just a reminder,” Ramson called over their entangled blades. “Lord Kerlan probably wants me in one piece, right?”

“I’ll bring you in one piece,” the mercenary snarled. “After I cut you up and stitch you back together again.”

It wasn’t a confirmation, but it was just as much: Kerlan was hunting him. Though Ramson would, ironically, bet his life that Kerlan wanted him back alive. If Kerlan wanted you dead, you’d wake with a dagger against your neck and your throat slit before you could even scream.

Most people, anyway. There was a reason Ramson had been Kerlan’s Deputy.

As long as Kerlan still wanted him alive, Ramson had a bargaining chip.

With a grunt, Ramson turned and twisted his blade free, pivoting full circle so that he was several paces back, sword raised. “No need to be so angry over your dead partner. With him gone, you’ll now have twice the reward.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about him.” The mercenary raised a dagger, pointing over Ramson’s shoulder. “Once I take care of you, I’ll make that witch feel living hell before she dies.”

Ramson’s blood turned stone-cold. He knew these types of men: cutthroats who’d known nothing but violence their entire lives. To Ramson, violence was a means to an end. To these men, violence had no end.

You could run, a voice inside him urged. Leave the girl to him and take the chance to escape.

He’d kill her. Do worse things to her.



You don’t care, the voice insisted. You made the mistake of caring before. And they ended up dead anyway.

Logic urged him that escape was the best course of action. Calculation told him that the mercenary was taller and stronger, and that his own odds of winning were narrower than a new moon.

Yet something more powerful than logic and more compelling than calculation roared in his veins as he angled his blade at the mercenary. Ramson dug his heels into the ground. “She’s mine,” he snarled. “And I don’t share.”

With a growl, his enemy rushed forward. Ramson darted back, dodging each whip-fast slash of the two alternating blades. Swerve, duck, twirl, parry, as though he were in a deadly dance, his moves light and fluid. The lessons of his youth were coming back to him and he felt as though he had been transported to another time and place, when his swordsmaster was bearing down on him beneath the brilliant blue of a Bregonian sky.

As fluid as the river, as strong as the sea.

This was just another lesson; just another dance.

Ramson leapt out of the way as the mercenary’s blades slashed at him, so fast that they were a silver-gray blur in the rain. Blow after blow, the mercenary bore down, his slashes growing faster and stronger. Ramson dodged. Face, throat, chest, legs—back and back, the song of their blades rising to a crescendo.