“There are only six of us now,” Winifred said as she slipped on a metal-studded leather breastplate.
“We know that,” Lydia muttered, watching her one remaining daughter, Tashi, put on armor.
“I think we should each consider having a daughter,” Winifred continued.
“Perhaps,” Queen Nima replied. “We will discuss it later. First we must deal with this invasion.”
“Oh, I see what Freddie means,” Freya said, coming to her sister’s defense. “The intruder might have potential.”
“Exactly!” Winifred nodded. “He could be fair of face, strong, and fleet of foot.”
Lydia snorted. “More likely, he’s a stumbling fool who has lost his way and doesn’t have the sense to get home.”
“But if he’s a good specimen,” Winifred argued, “we should consider taking his seed.”
Freya sheathed her sword. “I hope I find him.”
Winifred scoffed. “It was my idea. I should be the one to find him.”
With a laugh, Tashi handed them each a coil of rope. “Here. In case you need to tie him up.”
Neona frowned. Freddie and Freya seemed awfully eager to have a child. Didn’t they care that they would have to give the baby away if it was male? Neona had tried only once to get pregnant, but when the seed had failed to take root, she’d secretly rejoiced. After seeing the pain her sister had gone through, she was afraid of falling into that same trap of despair.
“Very well,” Queen Nima conceded. “You will take the man’s seed, but only if he is exceptional. Our daughters must be warriors, superior in mind and body. And don’t forget the main purpose of this mission.”
Neona nodded, while the other women murmured, “Yes, your majesty.”
With a growing sense of unease, Neona slid on her father’s helmet. It was brass with a black plume and decorated cheek guards. She’d always wondered what had happened to the brave Greek soldier who had journeyed so far from home and become the father to her and Minerva.
When she was young, she’d asked her mother, and Nima had said he’d gone back to Greece. Then she’d warned Neona never to speak of him again. Over the years, Neona had come to suspect that her mother had not told the truth.
“Stay true to our noble cause,” Queen Nima reminded them. “Once you are done with the man, kill him.”
Chapter Two
From his perch high on top of a craggy peak, Zoltan surveyed the countryside around him. The landscape had become increasingly mountainous as he’d traveled south. Up here, he could see farther, but the cold wind was slicing through his suit. As a Vamp, he could endure it better than most humans, and since he’d always prided himself on never quitting till a task was done, he decided to press on.
A large bird flew by, a hawk, Zoltan thought. It was a shame he’d never been able to communicate with birds like his mother could. If so, he could have asked the hawk the location of the fierce warriors that the dog had warned him about. Or perhaps the bird would know something about the feathers on the end of the new arrow he still held in his hand.
A few years ago, he’d taken the old arrow from his castle to some scientists in Budapest so they could examine it using modern technology. The results had surprised everyone. The arrowhead was ancient, similar to those used by the army of Alexander the Great. The carvings were unknown. The feathers were from a golden eagle, and the wood had come from a king cypress tree, which grew in parts of China and Tibet. The scientists had concluded that the arrow had been crafted in ancient Greece, using wood that had been imported from the east. They’d urged him to donate it to a museum, but he’d declined.
Now he had to wonder if the scientists had gotten it backward. What if the arrow had been crafted here in Tibet, using an ancient Greek arrowhead? Did that mean the so-called fierce warriors had traveled all the way from Tibet to Transylvania to kill his father?
Zoltan had always wondered if his father’s murder had been an act of revenge after the death of his mother, but it didn’t seem likely. It would have taken months to travel such a long distance in 1241. And his father had been murdered only a few hours after his mother.
Unless . . . could the murderer have been a vampire? A Vamp could have teleported to Transylvania. Or maybe the fanciful tale told by a few surviving villagers had been true. They’d given him a horrifying account of monsters and warriors so fierce that no living person could have ever defeated them. Zoltan had always suspected their elaborate story was nothing more than a pitiful piece of fiction to justify their failure to save their village and loved ones. If only he could remember more of that fateful day . . . but he’d spent most of it unconscious. He’d awakened the next day, miles from the village with no idea how he’d arrived there.
He took a deep breath. That was 1241. Those warriors, even if they had been fierce and monstrous, were now dead. Unless they were vampires . . . But if they were bad vampires, why did they fight Lord Liao two weeks ago? Why did they save Russell?
Zoltan levitated higher in the air, gritting his teeth against the cold wind. Higher and higher so he could see over the mountaintops. There, to the south, were those lights?
He focused on them so he could teleport there, but then with a flash, they disappeared. Damn.
How could he give up now? He teleported across the valley to the top of the next mountain, then continued to teleport, zeroing in, as best as he could surmise, on the area that had been lit. After ten minutes of traveling, he landed on a sloping hillside, surrounded by forest. He had to be close now.
Dead leaves and needles cushioned the ground, softening his steps as he moved downhill. Every now and then, the forest cleared for an outcropping of large boulders that gleamed silver in the moonlight.
With his superior hearing, he caught the sound of a trickling stream far to his right. It was running down the hill to the valley below. And behind him, the tiny snap of a twig.
Animal or warrior? He paused to listen more closely. A whooshing sound. He dove behind some bushes just as an arrow missed him and thudded into a tree.
He glanced up at the arrow. The same carved design on the staff. The feathers of a golden eagle. He’d found them!
Or rather, they’d found him. He teleported to a nearby outcropping and crouched on the rocks, scanning the forest.
There. A glimpse of brass glinting in the moonlight. One warrior. He was stealthy, Zoltan had to give him credit for that. The warrior had managed to sneak up on him, and that rarely happened.
Other than that, the warrior didn’t appear that impressive. Slim build. A little below the average height for a man. The brass breastplate wasn’t a good idea, since it reflected the moonlight and gave away his position. The helmet had a black horsehair plume running down the center and cheek and nose guards that covered most of the warrior’s face. He was equipped with bow and arrow, sword, and at least one knife that Zoltan could spot. The warrior looked fierce enough, but archaic, as if he should be sacking Troy, not wandering about Tibet.
The old arrowhead that had killed his father had come from ancient Greece.
Zoltan called out in Greek, “I come in—” He flattened himself on the rock a second before an arrow whooshed over his head. “Peace,” he whispered. The warrior wasn’t big, but he was quick and had excellent aim in the dark.
“Are you a vampire?” Zoltan yelled in Russian, then, leaving his arrow on the rock so his hands would be free, he teleported behind the warrior. Meanwhile, his foe answered his question by firing another arrow over the pile of boulders.
Zoltan breathed deeply, taking in the man’s scent. Rich with blood. AB negative. Human.
The warrior drew his sword, advancing slowly on the rocky outcropping.
Zoltan teleported behind the boulders and waited. “I come in peace,” he said in Hungarian as the warrior came into view. “Pax?” He jumped back to avoid a jab from the man’s sword. Dodging behind a tree, he tried Romanian and Serbian. Wood chips flew as the warrior’s sword struck the tree.
“Français? Deutsch?” He lunged to the ground and rolled as the sword made another swipe at him. “Dammit, I just want to talk!”
The warrior hesitated, his sword raised overhead.
Zoltan eased to his feet. “You understand English?”
The sword sliced down with a swoosh, and he leaped to the side. To hell with this. Zoltan lunged forward, seizing the warrior’s sword arm, then lifting it up and squeezing till the man gasped and dropped the weapon.
The warrior retaliated, using his left hand to grasp Zoltan around the throat. Strong fingers dug into his neck.
Zoltan grabbed the warrior’s wrist and wrenched his hand away. “You understand English, don’t you? Stop your attack.”
The warrior made a sound of frustration as he tried to free his hands from Zoltan’s grasp. He fell backward, taking Zoltan with him, then planted his feet in Zoltan’s stomach and shoved hard, flipping him over.
With a thud, Zoltan landed on his back. He rolled over and made a grab at his opponent. Unfortunately, his hands only caught hold of the man’s bow and quiver of arrows, and he ended up pulling them off the warrior’s back as the man jumped to his feet.
When the warrior made a dive for his sword, Zoltan leaped on the man’s back, smashing him into the ground. With a cry, the man reared back, clonking Zoltan in the head with the brass helmet.
“Ow!” Zoltan was stunned for only a second, but that was enough time for the warrior to wriggle free and make another lunge for the sword.
A trickle ran down Zoltan’s temple, and the smell of blood made him hiss. This had gone on long enough. With a roar, he jumped to his feet. Then using his vampire strength, he swung the warrior around and shoved him against a tree.
The brass helmet hit the tree hard, causing another gasp to escape the warrior. Zoltan pinned the man’s arms overhead and leaned close.
“Now cease your—” Zoltan stopped, taken aback by the eyes that glared at him. They were the bluest he’d ever seen. An improbable royal blue.
He moved to the side, just barely missing the man’s attempt to knee him in the groin. Still, the blow struck his hip hard, making him grunt in pain. Damn, what kind of warrior would go for a man’s groin?
He narrowed his eyes. The noises coming from the warrior had been a little high pitched. Could he be . . . ?
Zoltan released the man’s wrists and ripped the helmet off. Long black hair cascaded, falling past the warrior’s shoulders and framing a face that was delicate and feminine. An expression as stunned as his own. The helmet slipped from his hands, thudding on the ground at his feet, as he stood there, transfixed. She was exquisite. The most beautiful woman he’d—
“Aagh!” Her knee hit home, and Zoltan fell to his knees, doubling over.
She lunged to the ground to reclaim her sword.
“Dammit,” Zoltan growled as he seized one of her ankles and jerked her feet out from under her. She fell onto her side and rolled, lifting her sword overhead.
“Enough!” Gritting his teeth against the pain, Zoltan jumped on top of her, grasped her sword arm, and slammed it to the ground.
She went for his throat again with her left hand, but he grabbed her wrist and pinned it down. She wriggled beneath him, but he pressed his weight on top of her.
“Enough,” he whispered.
Her eyes widened, and she grew very still as she studied him.
He had a strange feeling she was assessing him. “How do you do? My name is Zoltan. And you are . . . ?”
She continued to stare at him.
“I’m afraid we got off to a bad start, but I assure you I mean you no harm.” He gently pried the sword from her hand and tossed it to the side. She didn’t object when he took hold of her wrist again. “Now that’s better. You were about to tell me your name . . . ?”
“You are extremely strong and fleet of foot,” she said softly, as if she was thinking out loud.
“So you do speak English.”
She frowned. “You are fair of face and seemingly intelligent.”
He winced. “Seemingly?”
“It is unclear.”
“Then allow me to clear it up for you. My intelligence is fine.”
She gave him a look that seemed to indicate he’d just proven his lack thereof. “It was not wise of you to come here.”
He snorted. At least she thought he was fair of face. “Actually, I thought it was very clever of me to find you.” Even if it had taken him eight hundred years. “I have some questions, you see, regarding an arrow—” He glanced toward the rocky outcropping where he’d left the arrow and froze.
A snow leopard crouched on the rocks, ready to pounce.
Slowly, never taking his eyes off the wildcat, Zoltan eased off the young woman and reached for her sword. “When I stand, back away. Then run home as fast as you can.”
“You intend to protect me?” she asked. “Why? I was trying to kill you.”
“Yes, but you failed.” He glanced at her, giving her a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t hold it against you.”
Her eyes widened and she lay very still, staring at him.
Maybe he’d shoved her around too hard. She seemed stunned. He gave her a little shake. “You should go home now, okay? I’ll take care of this.” He’d protected people for almost eight hundred years, so it wasn’t something he questioned anymore. He simply did it.
He straightened, facing the pile of boulders with the sword clenched in his hands.
The snow leopard hissed.
“You’re very brave,” the woman said behind him.
“Seemingly,” he muttered, lifting the sword. “Now back away slowly.”