Page 118 of Bitten Vampire
The sword rises in a perfect arc.
And just as the world narrows to a single downward stroke?—
—my jacket stirs.
If you want something done right,Beryl drawls,you have got to do it yourself.
She rockets from my pocket like a fired bolt, wood humming, carves a corkscrew through the air and hits the Grand Master square in the chest.
A dull thud. A wet, awful squelch.
He looks down, astonished, at the stake buried to the hilt. His hands lift—hesitate—as if reality needs a moment to catch up. Beryl keeps boring, the magic vibration rattling my teeth from across the hall, shredding his heart.
He coughs. Thick, tar black blood sluices over his lips and chin, creosote and rot hitting the air. He staggers and drops to his knees.
Beryl bursts from his back in a spray of gore, a victorious, vicious little spear. He makes one final strangled sound and pitches face-first onto the platform.
The compulsion breaks like glass.
It rushes out of the room in a pressure wave; every glazed eye clears. Vampires on the tiers flinch as though waking from a nightmare. A dozen blades clatter to the marble. The hall inhales in one collective, horrified breath.
The Herald, still clutching his throat, half-sits. Healing already knits the skin; his eyes jump from the corpse to Valdarr to me. Councillors scramble at their dais, slapping down sigils, tripping wards, panic splashing across ancient faces.
“This… this is unprecedented,” an elder rasps. “He compelled the court!”
Tony’s hold on me loosens as though he’s been scalded. “Winifred, I—” The apology dies; I’m already gone.
I sprint. Valdarr catches me, folding me into him, twisting us clear of the executioner’s blade. He smells of musk, metal, and the copper-sweet tang of battle.
“Are you hurt?” He frames my face in his hands, searching my eyes while his thumbs sweep my cheekbones, then he peppers me with light kisses.
“I’m all right,” I whisper.
He lets out a deep, body-shuddering sigh and holds me tight.
“Do your duty,” Valdarr says, voice flat. He points at the platform without looking. “Take the traitors head.”
The executioner bows. “Of course, Grand Master.” He crosses the distance in three strides and brings the sworddown. Clean. Final. Then Valdarr’s father’s head rolls once, twice, and is still.
That was for Amy and Max. For all of us. My knees buckle, and only Valdarr’s support—his strong arms around my waist—keeps me upright. Beryl’s strike should have been enough, but with that monster, I trust nothing short of ash.
“I’ll burn him,” Valdarr says, reading my mind, gaze fixed on the ruin of his father. “Scatter him to the four winds, and salt the earth. He will never come back. He will never touch you again.” When his eyes finally meet mine, they are fierce and unbearably sad. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
“You did.” My voice is wrecked and shaking. “The only reason I fought him is—you. Your blood in my veins. He tried to convince me I was his, that I loved him. For one horrible moment I almost believed it.” I press my palm to Valdarr’s chest, to the steady, unnecessary rise and fall. “But your blood sang, and my soul knew I could never be his. I love you and every part of me knows it.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on.
“I love you, Winifred. Thank you for saving me,” he whispers into my hair. “And for bringing your friend.”
Coated in gore, Beryl gives a dramatic shake, flinging droplets like confetti that freckle the dais with dots of villain. Then she zips toward me.
“Oh no, you don’t.” I dodge. “Absolutely not. You are covered in Grand Master goo. You are not going back in my pocket like that.”
She laughs, bright and shameless.Missed you too, kid. Also, you are welcome.
“Thank you,” I say, breathless and shaky and half-hysterical. “For dealing with him and rescuing us.”
“Thank you, Beryl.” Valdarr inclines his head.
