Page 1 of Blood of a Huntsman

Slayer Blades

Cat remembered the first time she'd held a sword. It had been heavy and awkward in her chubby little hands. She'd cut herself that day, and the day after. A kinder tutor might have given her a light wooden practice blade more suited for a five-year-old. Instead, she wielded a jeweled, curved blade with a silver handle that a woman twenty years older might have found awkward.

Kindness had no place in Stormhall, home of her forefathers, some of whom still roamed the marble corridors.

Twenty-three years after that lesson, her grip was light and effortless on any sword, but this one felt particularly nice. Well-balanced. She circled her wrist and marveled at the perfect, fast swing.

"You like it?"

She reluctantly lifted her gaze from the blade to her host, a dark-haired, dark-eyed ancient as handsome as he was powerful. And terrifying. Leviathan De Villier could destroy her on a whim if he so desired. And when she'd first arrived in Oldcrest, his territory, she'd believed he just might.

She'd been able to tell from the start: he disliked her. No wonder. Catherine Stormhale didn’t possess many likable qualities, and didn’t care. She wasn’t here to win any popularity contests. Cat was in Scotland because, regardless of Levi’s opinion of her, this place was a definite improvement over where she came from.

He seemed a little less intimidating these days. Not friendlier, exactly, but when she looked into his eyes, she no longer saw mistrust or hostility. Just indifference, a change she knew was due to his partner. Girlfriend. Mate. Cat didn't know what to call Chloe Eirikrson. They were downplaying their relationship, living separately, dating like they were mere mortals.

"It’s beautifully crafted. I can't believe it feels so light, despite the size," Cat told Levi, her blade hitting the air as she lunged to test it further.

She was in his armory, waiting for Chloe. They'd arranged to meet here at seven in the evening. Chloe was late, but Cat knew not to take it to heart. She and Levi had been “otherwise engaged” upstairs—Cat would have known that even if her hearing weren't so acute.

"The trick is ensuring the grip is the same weight as the blade to keep it balanced. Not an easy feat with a longsword. But I had it made in Castile. They knew their trade, back in the day."

Shit. The kingdom of Castile had been dissolved almost a thousand years ago. She definitely shouldn’t have just helped herself to a treasure such as this. But the sword hadn’t looked that old. A preserving spell, no doubt. Levi had access to many witches; of course he would have ensured that his possessions endured throughout the ages.

Cat put the sword back down on its display. “Sorry. I should have asked before touching it.”

Levi allowed himself a half smile that wasn’t kind or pleasant; she felt like he was mocking her, somehow.

"Polite as always," he noted. "Don’t fret. It’s nothing special. A dozen such swords exist. I used to arm my slayers with them. Only three of them are alive now, so the nine spare swords are gathering dust."

"Three of your slayers are a thousand years old?”

Cat shouldn’t have been surprised.

A little over two thousand years ago, the goddess Ariadne created their kind, turning seven humans into the first vampires. Those seven humans had, in turn, bitten and turned many mortals. But unlike the turned vampires, the founders were able to reproduce, give birth to creatures made to become immortals.

Cat and Levi were born vampires, though they weren’t in the same league. Ariadne had turned Arthur Davell, Levi’s father. In contrast, Cat’s mother, grandfather, and great-grandfather had all been born into this life, descending straight from the matriarch and founder of her family. She was a watered-down version of Levi.

That wasn’t quite fair. Power didn’t automatically fade with each generation. Cat’s brother Seth was proof of that. But she didn’t hold a candle to Levi, and she knew it.

The founding seven had often been at war—with each other, with witches, with other immortals. Sometime around the ninth century, they started turning and training gifted humans to send them to battle as foot soldiers: their slayers.

The Stormhales had a few, and it was rare for them to survive decades, let alone hundreds of years.

“Yes,” the ancient confirmed.

“I’ve never heard of slayers who lived to that age,” she admitted.

“I believe in taking care of my people.”

His people, he’d said. Not his subjects.

Her family saw anyone who wasn’t a Stormhale as other, lesser. Disposable.

Levi didn’t. Cat couldn’t decide whether he was noble, or playing some kind of game. To appear less threatening, perhaps. If so, it wasn’t working.

“Mikar,” Cat guessed, naming Chloe's bodyguard. She knew he was one of the men Levi trusted above all. Though it was hard to tell the age of a man permanently frozen in his prime from his aura, Cat guessed that he’d been turned into a vampire a long time ago. “He’s one of your ancient slayers.”

He inclined his head in acquiescence. "Yes. The other survivors are Sylvan, who’s working in the Americas for me, and Ruby. She’s around here somewhere.”

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