A Kiss of Blood (Vamp City #2)(85)

Cristoff picked up his whiskey glass and motioned for Arturo to follow him into the hallway, where two guards stood at attention. Arturo had never seen the kovena guards quite so rigid. Nor had he ever tasted such fear. One in particular, one of the newer guards, was shaking with it. Never a wise thing to do in front of Cristoff.

Cristoff slowed, noticing the visibly trembling countenance of the younger guard and the way he tried without success to meet Cristoff’s gaze.

Eye narrowing, Cristoff peered at him. “What have you to hide?”

“N-nothing. I just . . . nothing!”

Cristoff turned to Arturo. “Do you think he tells the truth?”

Arturo considered, feeling the path beneath his feet narrowing with every passing hour until he stood on little more than a tightrope. “Yes,” he said blandly. “He was in the throne room earlier. I suspect he was affected by the executions.”

With a considering look at the guard, Cristoff crooked a finger. “Come.”

The young guard turned sheet white, but followed them down the hall to Cristoff’s study. The vampire master placed his palm against the top right panel of the door. Soon the door rattled slightly, then sighed, opening. Only Cristoff had access to this room.

Arturo followed Cristoff into the room, the young guard trailing uneasily, his heart rate jackhammering, his fear flowing into Arturo’s system like an infusion of sour wine.

Arturo had always loved Cristoff’s study, with its walls lined with bookshelves, overflowing with tomes collected throughout Vamp City soon after it was created—duplicates of the real versions that would fetch a handsome price if money ever became an issue for the kovena. A brightly colored Persian rug covered the cold tile topped by a well-used brown leather recliner that sat before the hearth. Against one wall stood the chess table where he’d once spent untold pleasant hours.

In addition to the bookshelves, glass cases filled with relics collected throughout Cristoff’s considerable lifetime dotted the room. The most prized, by far, was the jewel-hilted sword at the back of the room.

Escalla.

Cristoff motioned to the glass case in which Escalla appeared to float without tethering. “Retrieve the sword for me,” Cristoff commanded the now-quaking guard.

Arturo’s eyes narrowed, his own pulse quickening. For as long as Cristoff had owned the sword, he’d warned his vampires that Escalla had been charmed to respond only to his calling. Any attempt by another to touch it would mean death. Had that all been a ruse to keep them away from it? Or was Cristoff up to more of his sadistic play?

The young guard started forward uncertainly but conquered his fear and strode forward until he stood in front of the magical case.

“I . . . I’m not sure . . .”

“Reach in and take it out,” Cristoff snapped.

The male did just that, his hand moving effortlessly, startlingly, through what appeared to be glass and apparently wasn’t. But when he would have closed his fingers around the hilt, he froze. And suddenly he was encased in a mystical green fire that slowly melted the flesh off his bones. He screamed. A moment later, he turned to ash.

“I never could abide cowards.” Cristoff strode forward, reached into the case, and pulled out the sword. He glanced at Arturo. “This is the most powerful weapon in the world, in the right hands.” He chuckled. “In the right heart.”

Arturo’s own heart began to race as he stared at the sword whose destruction was presumably the only means of destroying the Levenach curse. Fortunately, there was no need for such a measure since destroying the weapon would be nigh-on impossible when he couldn’t even touch it. Quinn’s magic was almost certainly strong enough now to renew Vamp City, he was sure of it. And once she did, she would be safe. That was all that mattered.

“Go, my snake. Find the sorceress. Quickly!”

Arturo bowed before his master, aching at the loss of the Cristoff he’d once known and at the lives wasted this day. How many more would die before the magic was renewed? How long before Cristoff began to regain his soul?

If he ever did.

Lily drank her fill from the cool stream, then wiped her ice-cold hands on the skirt of the slave’s dress she’d been given when she first arrived at Castle Smithson. The gown was long-sleeved and wool, and she thanked the heavens for it. The temperature had turned downright cold, and she’d have frozen to death if all she had were the T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops she’d been wearing the morning she wandered out of the real world as she’d waited for Zack.

A dozen times a day, she wished she’d pulled on running shoes and socks that morning as she’d dressed for class. She’d lost her flip-flops early on and been without shoes ever since. Inside, being barefoot didn’t bother her much, but out here, her feet were tender and sore. And ice-cold.

Still, cold, sore feet were a small price to pay for freedom. And, for the moment, she was free. She’d slipped out of the Trader’s cart as it bounced through a shallow stream, soaking her bare feet and legs though sparing her dress, which she’d hiked up high. Stealing into the woods, she’d run for more than a mile, ignoring the pain in her feet, unsure which direction to go. Eventually, she’d come upon a small shack that looked as if it hadn’t been lived in since 1870, and there she’d taken shelter for the night.

This morning, the realities of being on her own had begun to set in. Almost from the moment she’d arrived in Vamp City, the vampires had provided for her—food when she was hungry and a somewhat warm, somewhat safe place to live. With her freedom, she’d lost those. And, a born-and-bred city girl, she had no idea how to fend for herself.