Page 43 of The Taking of House Westwood

“It’s the Nocturne, Mistress.”

“Oh, dear Gods. Vampires.”

The door shuddered, shaking in the heavy frame. A deep rattling growl could be heard on the other side. A strangled, pain-filled scream spiraled upward out in the courtyard, the blood-curdling tone finally cut off mid-note.

“How many,” she whispered, her tongue licking dry lips. “Did you see how many made the keep?”

“The light was low, Mistress, but there were several. A-at least five.”

She cursed under her breath.

“By the door,” the Lady said, shoving his shoulder. “They’ll let their guard down if they see only me.”

He nodded, skirting around the room, until his shoulder pressed against the wall, just to the side of the doorway. Another harder thud on the door, and both Arnaud and the Lady jerked.

Horses began whinnying and then screaming outside in the stables. The tearing, dry sound of wood being shattered could be clearly heard. There was the irregular clop of hooves, then a man yelling at someone to get out of the way, his voice cracking with strain.

The door shuddered, then part of it gave way, splinters and dust flying into the room. A large hand reached through the hole in the wood, the long fingers tipped with sharp gray nails. The remainder of the door groaned and blew inward, pieces of wood striking the Lady. She cried out, raising her sword and moving forward. Two of the black-clad nocturne, both easily a head taller than Arnaud’s six feet, strode into the room, their movement startlingly quick.

Arnaud’s sword slashed up into the torso of the second vampire. There was a great wet-sounding cry and the figure pitched forward clutching at the bloody gash left by the sword’s blade. The first vampire turned in a swift fluid movement, grasping Arnaud around the throat and pinning him against the wall. The overseer emitted a high pitched gurgle, scratching at the arm that held him. Arnaud’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, his eyes wide with terror.

Lady Westwood struck then, running the sword completely up under the vampire’s arm, the blade plunging deep into the upper chest. She staggered back as the vampire, yelling in pain, lashed at her with his free hand, the sword left to vibrate in his body.

The vampire grasped the grip of the sword and ran it back out, pained grunting accompanying the passage of the lethal blade. Arnaud gasped repeatedly, still struggling against the implacable hand around his throat.

The vampire that Arnaud had cut down stood haltingly up, and turned his gaze to the Lady. It was then that she could see the brilliant flaming silver of the eyes. She screamed then, stumbling backwards. “No! No!”

The vampire flashed forward, gripping her by the hair and cranking her head back. “You’re coming with us, Lady Westwood.” He looked back at his companion, who still held the overseer pinned against the wall.

The vampire holding Arnaud moved close to the man, until their faces were inches apart. “Where we’re going you cannot follow, human.”

The vampire’s mouth filled with long, gray fangs. Arnaud struggles intensified, the man uttering a high-pitched squealing. Then the vampire chewed into Arnaud’s throat, tearing the larynx out, then biting deeper, the dying man’s bright blood poured out onto the vampire’s wrist and forearm.

The Lady screamed, clawing at the arm holding her hair fast. The vampire holding her drew close, his fiery gaze locked with hers. “Before we go, there is something else I want from you, my Lady.”

“Kill me! Please! Make it quick, I beg you.” Her hands clamped on to the vampire’s wrist, pulling at it.

“Oh, what would be the fun in that, Lady Westwood? We have much more planned for you, we do.”

The vampire holding Arnaud threw his lifeless body to the floor as it were a child’s doll. “We need to move quickly, Marshall.”

She screamed again when she saw the fangs of the vampire holding her lengthen, his eyes burning yet brighter. The vampire wrenched her head back, exposing the vulnerable throat. She gasped as the fangs sank into the delicate flesh of her neck. Her arms weakened then dropped away, limp. His hand traveled down her torso as he drank from her, squeezing a plump breast through the thin lace of her chemise. Her whole body soon grew still, consciousness leaving her.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen

Sophie lay with her chin on Owen’s chest, luxuriating in the sound of his breathing. She could see his eyes moving under the lids. Was he dreaming? Dreaming of her?

She kissed his firm flesh, rubbing her cheek against the thin layer of light hair there. She suspected he’d have a hairy chest — her favorite kind — when he was older, but now in his comparative youth, he only had the hint of it. She wondered if she might be getting too far ahead of herself, but she tried to picture what he’d look like when he was older, perhaps even his father Isaac’s age? A beautiful lad would no doubt grow to be a beautiful man as well.

She heard a sharp cry.

Owen’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly. Then he was off the bed in a heartbeat, pulling his robes back on.

“What is it?” She struggled at her shift, trying to get it to move down her sweat-soaked flesh.

“Something’s happening. We need to go.”

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