Page 176 of Dragon Slayer

Oh. He’d just been sitting there.

But emotion surged. Adrenaline flooded his veins in a sudden, warm rush.

He stood, and crossed to the window. “This alley?” he asked as he opened the shutters and looked out through the frost-rimed glass. He could feel the cold coming in through the cracks, sharp enough to make his teeth ache.

That emotion – it wasanticipation. He sought his own reflection in the glass, and realized he was smiling, fangs long and sharp.

Five man-shaped shadows slunk along the wall of the alley down below.

“Well,” Vlad said, turning the window latch, his voice more beast than man. “I wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

“Vlad, what are you…”

He pushed up the window, letting in a blast of frigid air.

“Vlad, no!” Stephen made a grab at his arm that he avoided.

He thought he heard Cicero sigh somewhere behind him, but he climbed up onto the sill and leapt out into the night before the wolf could protest.

It was a short fall, but long enough for the wind to whip at his clothes and hair, for the cold to make his eyes tear, for the bottom to drop out of his stomach in that way that meant he was about to do something wild and dangerous.

Then he landed, light on the balls of his feet, like a housecat, perfectly balanced and ready to strike. And then he smelled men – smelled flesh, andblood. And heroared.

The would-be assassins whirled to face him, gasping. He could see well enough, with vampire eyes, to make out their shocked expressions.

A light thump beside him announced Cicero’s arrival, already shifted into wolf form. He gave a lupine snort of disapproval.

“You know you want to kill something, too,” Vlad said, and attacked.

To their credit, the assassins recovered quickly from their surprise. Knives flashed, and Vlad heard the rasp of a sword leaving a scabbard; the moonlight glinted down its length. A short sword, designed for one-handed use. This wasn’t a battle, but a dead-of-night killing.

Well. Theythoughtit wasn’t a battle.

Vlad was weaponless, but he didn’t care. A part of him relished the fact.

There were five opponents, and they split up, two moving around on Cicero’s side, three on Vlad’s. Confident his wolf could handle himself, Vlad put his back to Cicero and turned to meet the man with the sword.

That was doubtless what the enemy wanted him to do: focus on the largest, most obvious threat, leaving his sides exposed to the other two – and their knives. He had no idea if they knew what he was, but that didn’t matter. Vampire-savvy or not, they weren’t prepared forhim.

The swordsman moved in quick and close, a short jab; a killer and not a showy knight, aiming at Vlad’s arm with a blow meant to disable. Vlad ducked down low. A curse above him. He felt the other two closing in, meaning to hem him in from above. They’d fall on him then, all together.

He tucked and rolled to the right, fast, and used his shoulder to ram one of the knife-wielding assassins in the knee. The man grunted and flailed out with his blade, trying to catch Vlad with it even as he fell. Vlad dodged the blow – clumsy as it was – and elbowed the man in the groin. Kept rolling, and popped back up to his feet in a lithe flex of back and hips.

The man he’d tripped regained his feet – but not as quickly as Vlad. Vlad kicked him in the back, hard, high, right in the kidney. He felt something give beneath the sole of his boot, and the man collapsed with a choked-off shout.

Vlad registered a flash – the short sword coming at his face – and put his hand up. Hecaughtthe blade. It bit deep, deep into his palm. It hit bone. The pain was bright, and sudden, and he gritted his teeth against it – but knowledge helped him contain it. Knowledge that he could live through this kind of injury, heal from it, fight with it. He was immortal, and these people weren’t. They could hack him to pieces, and he could still throttle them.

Blood poured down his arm, into his sleeve, hot and thick. But he grinned. And he reached up with his other hand, and yanked the sword out of the man’s grip.

The assassin cursed, but reached for the knife at his belt.

The second one closed in as well.

Vlad moved his hands down to the pommel, blood making his grip slippery and inexpert. His hand felt on fire. He needed to get his mouth on the wound to staunch the blood flow, but there was no time for that now.

The third assassin dragged himself to his feet, limping, teeth gritted – shiny in the gloaming. A rib or two was broken, but he would attempt to finish the job he’d been hired to do.

Vlad braced his feet, and met them.

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