Dinner With a Vampire (The Dark Heroine #1)(54)
Author: Abigail Gibbs

He did not reply immediately, instead waiting and watching them squirm as he carefully chose his words.

‘Not a wasted journey though, is it, my friends? I’m sure the English weather is quite enjoyable.’ Careful to ensure his hood remained in place, he let his head roll skywards, where the stars were masked by swathes of clouds. He just needed to wait. Humans were so impatient – they let their secrets slip so easily.

‘You know as well as I that Lee is waiting for the Varns to make a mistake. He needs an excuse to gain the support of the British government.’

The cloaked figure waved his hand dismissively. ‘The Varns don’t make mistakes.’

‘Maybe they don’t need to.’

His hand clenched. ‘Must you speak in riddles, slayer? You just stated that Lee needs to wait for a mistake, and now you say the Varns don’t need to make one? What do you mean by it?’

The slayers began to back away and the cloaked figure felt his eyes flash black. ‘That is all you will learn tonight, rogue. We will send instructions when the time is nigh.’

‘Of course,’ he replied, fighting hard to keep his voice from wavering as he prepared to leap. With a bow of the head from the one man, all three turned and made an exit, retreating away from the border.

The cloaked figure forced air in and out of his lungs. There are three of them, he reminded himself. He couldn’t afford to blunder. Stepping around the tree to conceal himself, he silently counted to thirty before beginning his pursuit.

Surprise was everything. He doubted the first slayer had time to register what was happening as he appeared as a shadow behind the largest of the three, placing his hands as softly as a lover would on either side of the man’s neck, fracturing it without so much as a moan from the man as he toppled face-first to the ground. His comrades took three or four steps before they even noticed what had occurred. When they did, a short, tapered stake materialized in the hand of the first man as he whipped around, thrusting the point in the direction of his assailant’s chest. The cloaked figure was faster; he had already anticipated the man’s move – slayers were so predictable – and stepped aside, leaving the weapon to strike thin air. The slayer stumbled and when the cloaked figure tore the stake from his hands, he toppled, landing at the feet of the dead slayer.

The third man was not so foolish. He backed away, holding his stake close to his chest and allowing his eyes to jerk between his two fallen comrades and the vampire in front of him. In their flecked hazel, he could see the reflection of the one slayer struggling to his feet, juxtaposed with the inner struggle of the third man as he battled between fight or flight.

The cloaked figure did not have the time or patience to wait for him to make a decision. With a languid effort, he pitched the stake in the direction of the man’s chest, turning away to deal with the first slayer. He knew his aim was true when the scent of blood rose from the corpse, hanging like a heavy musk in the air between the trees.

He stopped just short of the slayer, watching as he hoisted himself up, his nose dribbling blood. It was a pitiful sight. But as soon as the man had straightened, he was thrust against the tree as the cloaked figure’s hand clamped down on his throat.

‘What do you mean, they don’t need to make a mistake?’ he hissed in the trembling man’s ear. The slayer didn’t answer, instead throwing a ball of spit to the ground. The cloaked figure cringed. Filthy habit. He was disgusted, even, to bite such a filthy, grime-coated man and he toyed with the idea of using one of their stakes, but he dismissed it – he needed answers. So he sank his fangs into the neck, driving them in deep until his mouth was clamped around his throat. When he had quenched his mounting thirst, he withdrew, plugging each bite wound with a finger to prevent them from healing. Twisting them like a corkscrew, he worked his way through veins and sinew, earning cries of pain from the slayer.

‘You’re going to die, but there’s still time to make you suffer,’ the cloaked figure growled, plunging his fingers even deeper.

‘Who are you? Who do you serve? You don’t stink enough to be a rogue,’ the man groaned with surprising defiance considering his legs were beginning to buckle from under him.

‘I serve no one. Now why don’t they need to make a mistake?’ The cloaked figure raised his knee, pressing it into the other man’s crotch, watching as his eyes bulged. When no answer came, he jerked his knee up. It had the desired effect.

‘R-rumours,’ the slayer choked, trying to press his hands to his crotch as tears rolled down his cheeks.

His heart leapt into his mouth. Rumours about Violet Lee’s attack? Could the slayers know? ‘Rumours about what?’ The cloaked figure only gave him a second to answer, before kneeing him in the crotch again.

‘The S-Sage.’

The cloaked figure could see he was losing consciousness and shook him roughly.

‘What about the Sage?’

The man could barely speak and only managed to utter one word before he slumped onto the cloaked figure’s shoulder, out cold.

‘Prophecy.’

Frustrated, the cloaked figure reached down with one hand and plucked the stake from the other slayer’s chest, pinning the unconscious man through the chest to the tree, like a flyer to a lamppost. There was no point attempting to wake him and he wanted to take no chances when it came to leaving witnesses.

Leaving the corpses behind – other rogues would enjoy the feast – he set off back west, feeling as though he had achieved little. Prophecy? What did he mean by that? Athenea had hundreds of prophecies, whole archives dedicated to them, and rumours circulated about them constantly. And how is it a mistake? How can Michael Lee use it as an excuse?

Either way, he knew he was not the person to make sense of it and took a running leap in the direction of Varnley.

My eyelids peeled themselves apart, and I blinked in the bright early morning light. My spine felt as though it had been wrenched apart with a hacksaw, and my neck had an unwelcome stiffness to the muscle. After blinking a few times I realized I was splayed across the floor, half-leaning against the bed, half-lying on the floor.

Groaning, I lifted myself up off the ground, using the bed as a support. Sinking onto the thick mattress I caught an unpleasant stink, like that of a sports kit gone unwashed for weeks.

Disgusted, I realized that I was the source of the stink – I was coated in sweat.

Then it hit me. The dream. In an instant, every memory came flooding back, different parts vying for attention. Most prominent of all was the thought he’s coming. Secondly, came the slayer’s foul reference to what they wanted to do to me, and with a shudder, I resolved to step into the arms of none other than my father when I got out of here. Allies to the government they might be, but good they were not.