Feathers.
“You’ll fight to the death. There will be no stopping until one of you is dead,” commanded their host, tossing the chain to the floor in front of the table.
Narcise stiffened and Chas felt her shock.
“Yes, you’ve heard me correctly. He’s avampirhunter, is he not? A killer? And that is what he came here for. I’d hate to disappoint him, and have him return to Dimitri only to complain about my lack of hospitality. Woodmore,” Moldavi said, looking at him, “if you succeed in killing this lovely sister of mine, I will generously allow you to go free…back to your own sisters.”
The words dangled there enticingly and Chas glanced at Narcise. Her face had gone blank and her eyes empty, and for the first time, he realized what Corvindale had meant by describing her as having dead eyes. One of her guards lifted the feather necklace and slid it over her head.
She shuddered visibly this time, and he could see her breathing change.
“Or you can slay him,” Moldavi told her. “Which is what I fully expect you to do. After all, you have had so many years of instruction. You should be able to best a wounded mortal.”
He settled back in his seat, a complacent smile hovering over his lips. “Arm them,” he said, nodding to one of the guards.
As they faced each other moments later, each brandishing a long, gleaming blade, Chas gathered his strength and steadied himself. The sword, which would normally be comfortable in his hands, felt heavier than usual. Awkward and wearing. He looked at Narcise.
She was moving slowly, as if she had difficulty breathing, and he knew it was because of the feather necklace. That would make things all the more simple for him. Not that he truly believed Moldavi would set him free if he killed Narcise, but he intended to win and then, hopefully, set the smoke packet afire.
“Begin!” commanded their host with a clap of his hands.
She staggered, and he could see real pain in her face. He had a momentary pang of sympathy for her…for, despite the fact that he was hardly as powerful and agile as he normally was, he was certainly mobile. She hardly seemed able to move.
She lunged toward him suddenly, her aim off and the sword jamming into the ground next to him. Their bodies clashed and he automatically reached out to steady her. As they bumped together, almost like two lovers embracing, she whispered, “Help me. Escape.”
He stumbled back and whipped his blade around, wondering if he’d heard her correctly…wondering if it were another of her tricks. Her face tightened, her teeth bared in great effort as she lifted her sword and raised it over her head in a stroke that left her body wide open for his blade.
Chas knew it was his chance, and he realized, as their eyes met when he swung his weapon around, that she knew it. At the last minute, he lowered his blow—which would have easily cleaved hand from wrist, head from neck, and hand from wrist again—and turned the blade to its flat side.
It struck the side of her torso, sending her staggering in the direction of the fire…which was precisely his intent. He came after her, and said, “Just as you saved me?” as he slammed the blade against her rising one.
“Was the only…way…” she muttered, and he saw a wave of effort crease her face.
Chas’s knee buckled and he stumbled into the wall, his sword scraping along the floor as he used it to regain his balance. Hell, it was like fighting when he was in his cups. He wondered if the spectators found the sight amusing or entertaining.
They were near the fire now, and he had a decision to make. Trust her, or slay her—which would be easily done. Either way, he had one chance to use the smoke cloud. She seemed to have regained a bit of ferocity, somehow, and was coming at him again. “Please,” she said over the clash of their swords.
Her eyes met his in that instant between the silver blades, and he saw pleading there. And desperation. Chas spun away, thinking suddenly of Sonia, and the argument they’d had when he visited her.
Who made you God?she’d said.Who gave you the right to judge who lives and dies? I should think you of all people would understand why they did it.
The pang of conscience, combined with the fear that he’d never see her again, and never be able to set things right—for he’d had his own harsh words—We all have our God-given abilities, and some of us actually use them, Sonia—unlocked something deep inside him.
Narcise was more familiar with the makeup of the house. Having her with him might slow him a bit, but at least he wouldn’t get lost.
He could always slay her later if he had to.
“Be ready,” he said, parrying sharply at her, lunging at her. The more he fought and moved, the easier it seemed to get. His body was returning…even as hers slowed. Although their conversation was soft, lost in the noise of battle and their distance from the spectators, he took care to keep his face away from Moldavi when he spoke.
She met his eyes, hers wide and hopeful, if not glazed, and he reached into the pocket of his breeches with his free hand. “Thank you.”
He had the packet, he was lining them up along side the roaring flames. “Way out?” he asked, slamming his blade against hers to muffle their conversation.
“There,” she gasped, her eyes going to the corner as she raised her blade weakly.
She was so slow and clumsy that he sliced along her arm without meaning to, and heard a shout from the dais: “First blood!”
Chas saw a small door in the corner and noted that it was far from the dais. Perfect. He might have a chance after all…as long as Jezebel wasn’t leading him into a den of lions or something worse. Like a locked door.
