Page 88 of Blood of a Huntsman

Nightmares

The world was ending. He knew it when he heard those words from her lips. But he didn't even care.

Bash grinned as he faced his opponent, a man as wide as him, as wild as him, but twice as strong. He didn't think he'd ever been that exhausted. It didn't matter.

"Do you have any reason for fighting?" Bash asked the stranger.

"Honor," the man replied.

Simple and to the point.

And it sounded empty as fuck.

"Well, good. I'll probably win, then."

The man lunged, fast, but he wasn’t the problem; Bash felt and saw another vampire coming from his flank.

He didn't have to wonder why. The witches who'd helped them however they could, ensured that they were fighting only one enemy at a time, weren't able to assist them anymore.

Shit. Two ancient vampires fighting him at once.

At least he'd heard Catherine say those precious words before the end.

He closed his eyes.

And opened them again.

The entire battlefield had been mayhem, brouhaha, disarray. Now there was complete and utter silence.

All eyes converged on the northern borders, so Bash looked too, frowning and not quite understanding what he saw.

The witches were still there, none hurt, thank god. Someone was standing in front of them. Something. Wilder than anything Bash had ever seen, stronger than anyone here. Something out of nightmares, protecting the nineteen witches.

He had no weapon in hand, no claws, his fangs weren't even out, but Bash knew this was a bloodsucker. No one had ever fit the image of a vampire more than this man.

He was tall and handsome. Too handsome. He wore a long, manly skirt—a little like a kilt, but black and flowing around his ankles. Nothing on his crafted torso. His skin was pale. His hair was dark at the roots, light after one inch. Matted.

Wildness and control. Beauty and savagery.

It hit him, then.

This was the creature of nightmares. Not Bash's, but theirs. All the intruders were living their worst fear.

This was Eirikr.

The stillness didn't last. The next instant, Eirikr's fist ran right through the first enemy's chest, and he pulled out his heart.

A cannon. He was a cannon, bashing through the entire field with the might of a force of nature, the strength of a god, and yes, beauty too. His grace made murder a dance. Bash could only watch wordless, motionless.

The corpses that hadn't yet fallen to the ground dropped, and then there was more silence.

"Shit."

The abundance of blood all around him was making Bash sick, dizzy, and too thirsty. He brought his hand to his face and pinched his nose.

"Now, now," said Eirikr pleasantly. "I've known many warrior souls. I recognize greatness. That's just a little blood. You can take it, child."

Those words were all it took. Bash found that he could take it. That the blood was irrelevant. He straightened his spine and knotted his hands behind his back, watching Eirikr as he crossed the ravine.

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