“It’s some kind of beast,” Albie breathed, peering over the drift.
“No,” I said, touching his arm. “It’s just a car.” When he looked confused, I tried for a better phrase. “Horseless carriage,” I corrected.
A vehicle rounded a bend in the road. Glossy black, its wheels looked like they belonged on a bicycle. The windows were fogged, and the round headlamps struggled to penetrate the snow.
My heart sank. I was hardly an expert, but I’d seen enough old movies to place the vehicle somewhere in the 1920s. The contraption puttered along, its thin wheels coated in snow.
“Where are the horses?” Tavish asked, wonder in his voice. “Magic is pulling it.”
“It’s not magic,” I said, misery building as I groped for an explanation that would make sense to him. This was Malcolm’s territory. Undoubtedly, my brother knew exactly how oldmotorcar engines worked. But he wasn’t here, and who knew if I’d ever see him again?
Albie cut me a sharp look, intelligence burning in his eyes. “We went forward, not back.”
The car hit a rut, and a loudcracksplit the air. The vehicle lurched, and the engine sputtered. Springs squeaked, and the engine died, the motorcar stopped in the middle of the road.
My breath puffed in the air. The twilight deepened by the second, night swiftly descending.
The driver’s side door opened, and a man climbed out. He was bald, but he wore no hat, and his thin coat appeared to offer little protection against the cold. He hurried to the broken wheel and ran an ungloved hand over it. His movements were jerky, obvious panic in his demeanor.
My breath puffed in front of my face. The man raced to the rear of the motorcar and unbuckled a metal box from a shelf. He returned to the wheel, stumbling and slipping through the snow. Flipping open the box, he withdrew several tools. His hands were already red from the cold, and he shook as he began repairing the damage. A tool slipped from his hand and hit the snow.
I looked at Tavish, then Albie. They both shook their heads.
“We can’t intervene,” Albie murmured.
“I know.” But worry nipped at me as I returned my gaze to the man. He was going to freeze to death. If the motorcar’s engine was dead, it couldn’t offer any heat. His clothes were woefully inadequate for the temperature.
He bent his head as he rummaged through the toolbox. The position exposed his nape, where something thick and silver circled his throat.
A collar.
The rear door opened, and a woman stepped out. A thick fur coat draped over a black beaded dress that fell to her knees.A white fur hat showed the edges of a bob haircut. Diamonds winked at her ears and throat. More jewels circled her fingers. Her lips were painted dark red.
And a pair of fangs peeked between them. Her eyes glowed more brightly than the headlamps, the yellow the color of an animal’s in the night.
Vampire.
The man threw down his tool and pressed his forehead to the snow.
The woman stopped with her boots inches from his body, and her fangs showed as she spoke in a rapid-fire language like Russian but not quite.
No, this was its own dialect, formed and molded by the Blooded Princes of the vampire plane, which was tucked in the darkest regions of the Ural Mountains.
The man cringed, snow quickly obscuring his rounded back. The thrall’s collar around his neck reflected the light from the motorcar’s headlamps.
My heart pounded. Halina of Krovnosta, mate to Fergus Devlin and my Uncle Bram, had outlawed the practice of keeping human thralls when she rose to power. But we weren’t in her time.
The vampire sneered. She turned, stalked back to the car, and emerged with a whip.
No.
Everything slowed. Eyes glittering, the vampire drew back the whip and let it fly.
CRACK!
The lash struck the man’s back, and he jerked violently, screaming as he collapsed in the snow.
“No!” The protest tore from my throat before I could stop it.
