Page 3 of A Game of Love and Betrayal

Eventually, Geralt seemed to realize his weeping would not get him anywhere. It was like a switch flipped inside the halfling. One moment, he was a sobbing, snotty mess. The next, his tears dried up as if they’d never been there at all. His back straightened, his chin rose, and an evil glint entered his eye. The facade of the weak, confused halfling vanished like a thief in the night.

A smile tugged at the corner of Brynleigh’s mouth. There he is, she thought, almost gleefully. Finally.

Now, she’d see this man for who he truly was.

Geralt’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted into a sneer. “You fucking vampiric whore. You think you can do this to me?” He tugged on his bindings as if he could break free. “Don’t you know who I am?”

Brynleigh raised a brow and calmly said, “I know exactly who you are.”

Her response seemed to enrage him further. He wiggled and thrashed against her shadows.

It wouldn’t work. Brynleigh was a doubly blessed vampire. The night of Brynleigh’s Making, Isvana, the moon goddess, had gifted the new vampire with both wings and shadows. Most vampires had one or the other. A few had none. Some, like Brynleigh, had both. Even now, darkness pulsed a reassuring melody through her veins.

“Who is your Maker?” Geralt snapped, his face turning beet red. “I’m going to drive a stake through your shriveled black heart, and then?—”

The end of his threat never came.

Tiring of the halfling’s antics, Brynleigh slashed her silver blade across his throat from ear to ear. Arterial spray painted her and the walls. It would’ve been enough to kill a regular human, but Geralt Warsh was a Mature Halfling.

Elves, fae, merfolk, werewolves, shifters, and witches all Matured around twenty-five years of age. Maturation extended their lifespans and gave them increased access to their powers. It also made them harder to kill.

Brynleigh sighed. She hated this part of her job even more than the whining.

Maybe she should’ve picked fangs. It would’ve been cleaner, although she was certain that ripping out Geralt’s neck wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience. He probably had disgusting, sewer-flavored blood.

It was too late now, though. She’d made her choice.

Twisting the dagger in her grip, Brynleigh slammed the bloody weapon into Geralt’s chest. It took significant force to drive a blade cleanly into a heart, but thanks to Isvana’s blessings, Brynleigh had strength in droves.

When she was confident the halfling was the kind of dead there was no coming back from, even for a Mature being, she went to the sink and turned on the tap with her elbow. She washed her hands thoroughly and dried them on her jeans before slipping her phone out of her back pocket. She unlocked it, navigating to the camera before snapping a picture.

With a few taps of her finger, she sent the bloody image to Zanri.

B: He was a whiner. You owe me.

Two check marks showed up, and three dots swiftly followed. Her phone buzzed a moment later.

Z: You got it. Meet me at the usual spot.

No other instructions were necessary. Brynleigh was done.

For now.

“Was it a clean death?”

Brynleigh had barely stepped out of the Void—the dark, empty space that some vampires such as herself could use to travel from one point to another, as long as they’d been to the second location previously—when Zanri’s deep tenor reached her ears.

The man in question stepped out of the shadows. His red hair fell to his waist, the lamp illuminating the streaks of brown running through it. Z was handsome in the way that most Mature beings were. His face was chiseled, his nose sharp, and his blue eyes dark as they swept over her.

Zanri was some kind of shifter, but Brynleigh had never seen his animal form. She assumed he probably shifted during the day when she couldn’t go in the sun. If she had to guess, she’d think he was a cat shifter. His eyes had a predatory, feline glint. Tonight, he wore tight black leather pants that were probably a pain in the ass to take on and off. They were paired with a matching black T-shirt that looked painted on his muscled form.

Brynleigh blinked and rolled her shoulders as her vision cleared. The shadows had brought her to their safe house, the wards surrounding the building recognizing her blood and letting her enter without issue. She’d gone straight into the living room. Her plan for the remainder of the night was simple. She’d shower, grab a bottle of blood wine from the fridge, and relax in front of the TV for a few hours.

“What do you think?” was her response as she pulled her hair into a quick ponytail.

He pulled out his phone, tapping the screen and drawing the photo she’d sent him. She could see the crimson that coated Geralt’s apartment from across the room. No one could ever clean that space now, not completely.

A dark chuckle slipped out of the shifter. “I think he got what he deserved.”

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