Page 4 of Blood of a Huntsman

All vampires healed fast, but, as in most other things, Chloe excelled. The newly turned vampire’s biggest flaw was that she had zero clue how to use a sword.

Levi had the foresight to show his mate the basics of self-defense before she was turned, so her hand-to-hand fighting was effortless. But Chloe just didn't get swordplay, a weakness she couldn't afford.

Most vampires didn't use guns or other modern weapons; the bullets were too slow, too easy to evade. But in their hand, a sword could move at the speed of light, and they didn’t need to waste time reloading a blade. Besides, bullet wounds weren't fatal to their kind. They could only be destroyed for good by a handful of methods. Burning. Beheading. Drowning. Heart completely destroyed, preferably ripped out of the chest. Those were the most common ways to permanently dispose of a vampire.

If Chloe had been anyone else, her inexperience with weapons wouldn't have mattered. But even before she'd turned, she'd been a target. Now, rumors were being spread about her around the world, and thousands of vampires wanted her dead, just because of who she was. What she was. What she represented.

Her line had been destroyed because they were too dangerous, and could—had—risen over their kind in the past. Vampires didn’t like to be told what to do, but the Eirikrsons had established laws about their dealings with mortals, witches, and shifters. Those who broke their laws were hunted down and destroyed. Eventually, their kind rose against the Eirikrsons and massacred the entire family. Or so they believed.

One boy survived, courtesy of Levi, and now, fifteen hundred years later, Chloe, his direct descendant, had been turned into one of them.

The entire vampire species feared that she sought to rule them again. The Eirikrsons were the monsters parents told their children about to force them to behave. The vampire boogeymen. It was only natural that their name should incite fear.

Cat knew Chloe. She was just a woman. A twenty-five-year-old, soon to be twenty-six, although she'd stopped aging. She'd worked as a waitress, and until March, her biggest problem had been choosing her thesis subject.

It wasn't fair that the world wanted to kill her just because of her last name. Cat understood this more than most. She, too, had often been defined by her family, her blood. For that reason alone, Cat would help Chloe as much as she could.

As long as she believed it was the right thing to do. And as long as she had a choice in the matter.

“It’s a bloody sword, not a cheese knife, woman. Your grip!”

Chloe adjusted her hand around the hilt of her practice sword and tried to lunge again.

Cat moved out of the way at the last moment but admitted, “Better. Much better. Shall we call it a night?”

Chloe sighed in relief. “Please! By all the gods, you’re worse than Levi. Are all vampires sadistic with their pupils?”

Cat laughed. Sadistic? If Chloe thought her tutelage was challenging, she wouldn’t have survived a day in Stormhall.

At least Cat didn’t break her bones when she messed up.

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