#Chapter 4: His Wife

Clara

The music from the banquet was barely a pulse by the time we reached the lower levels. Stone corridors. No windows. The air down here tasted like rust.

Dylan raised a fist. I froze mid-step.

Footsteps ahead. Uneven, too quick. A fledgling came around the corner with his nostrils flaring, still learning to move in a body that no longer answered to human instinct.

I closed the distance before he could inhale. Two steps, low angle, dagger up under the sternum. Silver found his heart. He turned to ash around the blade.

I holstered the gun. The corridor was too tight for anything loud.

We found her two corridors down. A steel door, bolted from the outside. Dylan cracked it in four seconds.

She was sitting on the concrete floor with her wrists chained to a pipe. Couldn't have been older than twenty. Dark hair matted to her face, mascara streaked down both cheeks. She flinched when the door opened.

"It's okay." I crouched in front of her and kept my voice low. "We're getting you out."

I picked the lock on her chains. Her wrists were rubbed raw underneath. She didn't speak. Just trembled.

Dylan wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. I squeezed her arm once and stepped back.

He lifted her to her feet. I checked both ends of the corridor. Clear. We moved.

The route back was clear. We'd cleaned it on the way in. Two flights of stairs, one hallway, then the service exit and the rain outside.

We were close. I could feel the draft from the service exit cutting through the stale corridor air. Twenty steps. Maybe less.

The air shifted.

A figure appeared between us and the exit. One moment the corridor was empty. The next, a man stood in our path.

His face was wrong. His features blurred behind something that resembled fog, indistinct and shifting, impossible to hold in focus. I couldn't fix on his eyes, his mouth, the shape of his jaw. Nothing stayed.

In his right hand he held a scepter. Black wood, ancient, carved with patterns I didn't recognize. At its tip, a gemstone the color of arterial blood.

He stood at the center of the corridor, dead still.

Dylan stopped. The girl whimpered against his chest.

"Aurelian." Dylan's voice came out barely above a whisper.

The blood left my hands.

Aurelian Ashbourne. The Vampire King. The man who walked out of my house when I was six years old and left three bodies behind him.

"It seems you're quite familiar with me." His voice was low and warped, wrapped in the same distortion as his face.

I drew my gun.

"Dylan." I didn't look back. "Take the girl. Go."

"Clara—"

"Now."

He didn't argue. When one of us said go, the other went. No hesitation, no wasted seconds. Dylan shifted the girl in his arms and ran for the corridor behind us. I listened to his footsteps until they faded. The corridor went quiet.

My finger tightened on the trigger.

"Brave," Aurelian said.

I threw the smoke grenade.

It burst between us. Gray cloud, instant cover. I fired two rounds through the smoke where he'd been standing.

The smoke hadn't cleared when his voice came from behind me.

"Vampire hunters are a rare breed these days." Calm. Unhurried. "I wonder who supplies you."

I spun—he was three meters back.

He wanted information. Who funded the hunters. Who armed us. I'd die before I gave him a syllable.

I yanked the holy water from my belt and hurled the vial over my shoulder as I turned. Raised the gun and fired in the same motion.

The bullet punched through glass. The vial shattered midair, and holy water erupted in a fine mist between us.

He had no choice but to move.

I aimed past the mist and pulled the trigger. A click. No round. A feint.

He vanished. Reappeared four meters to the right, clear of the water. Exactly where I'd expected.

I fired for real.

He twisted sideways. Almost fast enough. The silver bullet grazed the outside of his right shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin.

Silver wounds didn't close quickly. Not even for a king.

He looked at the blood on his sleeve. When he raised his head, the fog around his face seemed to thicken.

The distance between us vanished. One instant he was across the corridor. The next, his hand was around my throat and my boots were off the floor. He held me with one hand, the scepter still in the other, without visible strain.

His grip tightened. Not enough to crush — enough to close. The air I had was the air in my lungs, and it was running out.

"I had no intention of killing you." His voice was close now, almost conversational. "But your tricks are testing my patience."

I clawed at his wrist. My mask was still on. My vision spotted at the edges. I couldn't reach the gun. Couldn't reach the dagger. My boots kicked at empty air. The floor was right below me and I couldn't touch it.

Elias.

 A flash—morning light, his hand on the door.

Aurelian glanced down at something in his other hand. A pocket watch, gold, its chain catching the dim light.

His grip loosened.

"You're fortunate," he said. "I have to go see my wife."