“Skar, no!” I shout.
The man’s face turns purple. He writhes, his friends scream. “Black magic!”
Four men run in the opposite direction, wailing like cowards. Two of them come to help their friend, only for their own shadows to begin attacking them too.
I move in quick spurts at the awkward dagger-wielder, noticing his crooked nose, and I decide to crook it the other direction. One punch to the face when he’s focused on my blurring swords straightens him up and knocks him on his ass.
I hold my breath as Skar casually walks toward the purple-faced, struggling man. I expect him to plunge his silver saber into the man’s exposed chest . . .
Skartovius simply walks past him. He looks over his shoulder. “You coming, brat princess?”
Letting out my breath in a great heave, I hurry to my mate. The two remaining drunkards not being accosted by their shadows give us a wide berth. Their weapons tremble in their hands. One of them pisses himself, mingling a new scent to the sour one.
I stop when I recognize one of them is looking squirrelly, ready to attack me. “You’d be smart to lower that toothpick, sir. I’m not your enemy.”
“F-Fucking Hellwhore.”
“So you know who I am.”
“Bloodsucker slut is what you are. Spawn of the Damned and the Bitch-Queen herself—”
A black blur flies in from the side, blanketing the man in shadows that engulfs him completely. His screams are muffled, his friend takes off running, and I half-expect the bulging shadow blanket to disappear and show the skeleton of a man underneath, picked clean.
I know that won’t happen though. For all his irksome tendencies, Skartovius has showed he is going to listen to me. Just this once.
My mate is already halfway down the street, keeping Palacia cradled in his arms, while we leave the drunk men scattered and in hysterics.
I tail after Skar, jogging with a smile on my face.
Halfway to our destination, we meet an actual threat: the Bronzes. It’s a group of six plate-armored men, their cuirasses gleaming gold in the moonlight. They march down the street in three rows, two abreast. I glance right, noticing we could careen through an alley. The detour would add a lot of time to our trek before it spits us out near our destination.
Skartovius decides the best way past them isthroughthem. “Hold her,” he says, handing Palacia to me.
I open my mouth to argue—
There’s no timer to argue with that face. By the bent of his jaw, I know he wants these six for himself. Besides, if I don’t take Pala, he’s ready to plop her on the ground.
I groan and hold my friend. “Remember your promise to me, love.”
“Yes, yes, don’t slaughter the weak humans.”
The two leading soldiers take a knee and draw bows. Unlike the drunkards at the tavern, they’re shooting first and asking questions later. Over their shoulders, the middle duo draw spears. Behind them, the final team take out shields and shortswords.
Arrows whip toward us.
I instinctively show my side in a protective stance for Palacia. Skartovius ripples his cloak wide, tossing his shadow from across the ground, raising a wall of blackness with a grunt of exertion.
The arrows snap home, breaking on the solid inky wall. When Skar lowers it, the other four are charging us.
Fuck. He might need help with them.I cringe, look down at Palacia’s peaceful, pretty face, and frown.I can’t leave her. An errant arrow could hit her.
My head lifts to find Skartovius drawing his thin blade. He becomes the shadows, dashing to the enemies in a feral crouch that makes him seem more wolf than vampire.
With a howl of glee that makes my skin crawl, Skar skitters between the four soldiers and begins his dance.
These aren’t drunk citizens. They are soldiers trained in the Nuhavian academies, built for defense and war. They have two swordsmen, two spearmen, and two archers among them. Yet when I watch Skartovius move like a graceful phantom, I know they stand no chance.
Every spear stabbed toward him is avoided. He’s three steps ahead. His thin saber finds weak points between the joints of armor, where tunics and flesh are exposed.