“Locked?” he asked circling around and creating a vicious thrust that clashed with her sword.
“Don’t…think….” she gasped. “No.”
He flipped the packet into the fireplace as he eased her toward the corner, waiting for the telltale explosion. Hoping to hell Miro’s chemistry worked as well now as it had during their trials.
He was just about to give up when there was a soft muffledboom!and something shot from the fireplace.
Sparks and coals blasted into the room, and in the moment of surprise, he grabbed Narcise, half lifting her against his hip, and ran unsteadily toward the door, sword still in hand.
People were shouting and Moldavi was giving orders, but Chas ignored everything but the door. They had to get around the table and off the dais, and across the room…and he had the element of surprise. The puff of smoke rolled into the chamber, more slowly than he would have liked, but it was effective enough. His legs wobbled, his arms trembled, and Narcise was little help in an ambulatory fashion. They fell into the door, the momentum of his running clumsy and imprecise.
She shifted, gave a groan of exertion…then all at once, she was moving. The door opened and they burst out of the room.
Narcise turned, suddenly strong and quick. “Help me,” she said, leaning against the door as something slammed against it from the other side. Chas found the wooden bar and fit it across, barring the door, and then she said, “This way,” and started down a dim corridor.
She must have lost the feathers along their way through the chamber, or maybe even yanked them off her neck, because now she was faster and more agile than he.
Chas wasn’t about to complain; he still had his sword and a partner who seemed able.
They were going to make it.
She ran and he followed, his legs protesting, the aches in his torso screaming, but this was for life—the pain could go to the Devil. He was going to make it.
They came to the end of the corridor—a large, locked door—and just as they approached, avampirguard turned to see them.
Chas didn’t hesitate; it was second nature for him to duck under the attacking man, spin—albeit wobbly—and come back around from behind with the blade of his sword at neck level.
The man’s head rolled to the floor in a gush and splash of blood, but Chas didn’t hesitate. He went for the door, looking for the lock, and realized that Narcise wasn’t with him.
Turning, he saw her, pale-faced, half-collapsed against the wall. The blood. It had to be the blood. He grabbed her arm and towed her toward him, but her eyes were rolling back into her head and she was having trouble breathing.
She collapsed into his arms and he realized it wasn’t the blood—vampirscraved it, but it didn’t make them faint.
“Where’s the key?” he demanded, hearing shouts in the near distance. Damn the vampire sense of smell…they could track them as well as a dog could.
She murmured something he couldn’t understand, and saw that she was severely incapacitated. Then he realized, through the intensity of the moment… “Feathers.”
Narcise nodded, barely, and he realized why she’d never escaped on her own. Moldavi had the entrances and exits lined with feathers, or somehow used them to block it for her. He glanced around but didn’t see any sign of them…but for all he knew, they could be embedded in the door frame. She shuddered and tried to grasp him, but her fingers were weakening.
Now he didn’t know if it would kill her to go over the threshold—assuming the feathers were there, and in great numbers, obviously—or whether once past, they would no longer affect her, even if she was so greatly weakened. But either way, he had to decide to take the chance, or leave her behind.
“Where’s the key?” he demanded again, then realized the guard was there for a reason.
Gingerly, still holding Narcise up with one hand, trying not to step in the pool of blood—he didn’t need that scent clinging to him as well—he fumbled around the vampire’s body.
Just as the voices turned down the hallway, and he could feel the pounding of feet on the floor, he found the key hanging on a ring at the man’s waist.
Chas yanked it, praying it would come free, and the man’s body jolted in protest. He used his sword to slice down blindly and cut the bloody thing from his waist, taking a chunk of clothing and skin with it.
Key in hand, a weak and useless Narcise over his sword arm, he lunged for the door. The were coming, and he nearly dropped the key from his weak and clumsy fingers…but he fit it in as their pursuers appeared in the hall behind them.
Fifteen feet away and the door opened. Chas lunged through and dumped Narcise on the floor as he spun to close it behind him, struggling with the lock again in the light of a dim sconce.
By the time he had it in place, the force of the others on the opposite side had the door surging in its hinges. “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said, turning to gather up Narcise again.
But, praise God, she was on her feet—if not pale-visaged and wide-eyed—and she was bloody damn smiling. He yanked the torch from the wall, even though she wouldn’t need light in the dark, and they started running together,
“We made it,” she gasped. “We made it. We’re in the catacombs.”
