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.
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:
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 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 alongside 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.
“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 muffled
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, a
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—
“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. They 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 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.”
Chas looked around and realized they were in a stone-hewn tunnel lined with…skulls. Giordan Cale had described it to him, and had even drawn a rough map of the tunnels that Chas had committed to memory.
