“Never mind that.”
The narrow street opened into a long esplanade dominated by the towering stone castle. Moonlight glinted off its sharp spires, and a silver portcullis barred the gate. Gargoyles leered from buttresses high above.
She had no desire to go through that gate, but apparently she needed to speak to the Vampire Lord. This was what her life had become.
Caine paused, touching her wrist. His fingers warmed her skin, sending a thrill through her arm.
“When we go in there, someone might attack.” He reached for his back pocket, pulling out a hawthorn stake. “From what I saw earlier, I understand you know how to defend yourself.”
“Believe me. I’ve killed plenty of vampires.” And by “plenty,” she meant the few she’d just killed.
Caine led her to the portcullis, and chanted a spell to lift the silver gate. When it cranked and groaned to the top of the entrance, he led her into a long hall. Ivory rib vaults towered high above them like bones and, within steep-peaked arches, the walls were painted a deep crimson. Since her parents were apparently mages, they’d be right at home in a place like this, Rosalind sure as hell wasn’t. The look of the place sent a shudder up her spine.
As they walked through the hall, she caught glimpses of tapestries. Some were threaded with portraits of Nyxobas, the cloaked god of night. Others depicted horned demons with red eyes.
At the end of the hall, ornate wooden doors barred their path. Caine whispered another spell, and the doors creaked open into a great hall, its walls formed by what appeared to be human bones inset with sapphires, pearls, and moonstones. An array of silver weapons lined one of the bone-walls, and the air smelled of gardenias.
Vampires stood along the sides of the room, their shoulders rigid with military discipline. Horace stood among them. Of course, vampires easily outpaced humans.
Candles burned in chandeliers that hung from arches thirty feet above, casting a wavering light over the room. Horace’s cold, dark eyes darted to Rosalind, and he flared his nostrils.
But Rosalind’s gaze was most drawn to the stunning blond vampire in the silver throne: Ambrose, his face cold and beautiful as a renaissance statue. He didn’t look more than twenty-five, but as a Lord he was probably centuries old.
As she followed Caine into the hall, her muscles tensed. Her little hawthorn stake suddenly seemed inadequate in a room full of vampire nobility.
Her eyes flicked to the rows of vamps. She could actually see their desperate attempts at restraint. Horace trembled visibly, working his jaw. Apparently, her ambrosia-filled blood smelled amazing—or maybe her second soul smelled amazing. Either way, she was a rabbit in the center of a pack of wolves right now.
As she straightened, she took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to show fear. Human terror only stoked a demon’s bloodlust.
But before she could take another step, Horace’s rough nails clamped into her shoulders. For the second time that night, a demon’s fangs punctured her throat, and pain lanced her neck.
Chapter 8
She snatched the stake from her belt and slammed it into his back. She felt a sharp tear in her neck as Horace ripped out his fangs, but he wasn’t turning to ash. She must have missed the damn heart again.
Caine rushed forward, a silver sword in his hand, and swung for Horace, severing his head. Blood sprayed, and the body convulsed, twitching on the floor as though electrified. Fast as lightning, Caine reached down, ripping Horace’s heart from his chest.
She stared as Horace’s headless corpse blackened, turning to ash.
Sweet earthly gods. That was disturbing.
From his silver throne, Ambrose arched an eyebrow, his green eyes trained on Caine. “Did you just kill one of my favorite lieutenants? For a human?” His nostrils flared, and he sniffed the air. “One of Blodrial’s followers, by the smell of her blood?”
Rosalind touched her neck, and her hand came away crimson.
“Rosalind,” Caine said.
Uh-oh. Hadn’t Caine said something about getting cut?
The vampires’ bloodthirsty stares bored into her. A pregnant silence filled the room, broken by the low growling of ravenous vamps. They shifted, trembling at the effort of restraint. The pack of wolves was just about ready to feast on this rabbit.
Ambrose stood. “Control yourselves—”