Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

The battle was on.

*   *   *

I moved slowly, methodically, kept my eyes on the vampire I’d selected. I hope it looked intentional, as if I were baiting him into impatience and an unwise move. I was, of course, trying not to trip on the stairs.

Since there seemed little doubt the voluminous garment was going to get nicked, I made a silent apology to the gods of fashion, flipped the dagger in my hand, and when I hit the first floor, dove in.

The vampire met me, blade for blade, steel against steel. A slice to my right, and I matched it with the dagger, used the force to spin him away. A slice to my left on his return spin, and I used the dagger to block, forcing the blade down and causing him to shift his center of balance. He bobbled backward but caught himself again.

I took the offensive. I sliced forward, using my blade as I might have used a paintbrush, with quick, fluid strokes designed to keep him moving at my speed, to keep him dancing and dodging instead of planning new attacks.

It was a good plan, but he was well trained. Really well trained. I wanted to smack the mask off his face. I wanted to know who he was, and who’d trained him to attack humans.

He was smart enough not to open his body completely, or give me access to delicate organs. There was something gentlemanly about his fighting style—and maybe that was something I could use against him.

I bobbled forward, pretending to trip on the hem of my dress—not entirely improbable. For a moment, he paused, instinct telling him to help me instead of hurting me. That put him off-balance, and I used a spinning sidekick against the back of his leg with enough momentum to send him lurching forward . . . but not enough to put him on the floor. It was the dress—it was too snug around the knees to give me kicking room. But crescent kicks, side kicks, front kicks were key pieces of my fighting repertoire. Which meant, unfortunately, that dress would have to die.

I’m sorry about this, I said silently to Ethan, before grabbing the hem and rending the dress up one side, giving me room to maneuver—and probably showing more thigh than I should have. The rip was audible, and I’m pretty sure I saw him flinch at the sound of thousands of dollars being shredded in the interest of victory.

But victory trumped fashion.

My legs freed of constraints, I spun the dagger in my hand, beckoned the vampire to strike again. He didn’t waste time, moving forward with a jumping spin that sent the blade whistling. The human barrier shifted as we moved, morphing and changing shape around us like an amoeba to give us room to fight. I turned aside, outside his range, and punched forward with the dagger. I made contact, and the scent of vampire blood—the faint spice of it—blossomed in the air like a crimson flower—but he didn’t react, and gave no ground.

Well trained, I said silently to Ethan, hoping he was faring well against his own opponent, but afraid to take his eyes off mine.

The vampire shook off the injury, regripped his katana, lifted it above his head in a perfectly telegraphed downward strike. I lifted my dagger to his, using our joined blades as a pivot point, and spun away. The katana struck only air.

“You missed,” I said, and should have known better than to tempt fate. He struck again, and although I spun away, his aim was true enough that the tip of the blade caught my forearm, seared a trail of pain there.

I grunted as the scent of blood—mine, and not willingly shed—filled the air. “Ow,” I said, and when he stopped to look, cuffed him in the ear with an elbow.

“You cut me, you ass!” I said, and reached out for the mask. It was time for our mysterious vampire friend to reveal his identity.

He ducked the grab, but responded with one of his own, grabbing the tulle at my shoulder, but the fabric ripped and tore away in his hand, the bodice coming perilously close to dropping, but managing to stay in place. It was one of the rare times I was glad not to be especially buxom; had the girls been any larger, the gaping bodice would have put on quite a show.

A pulse of magic filled the air—and there was something familiar in it. The memory faded when I tried to grab on, like a faint star disappearing when you tried to look too closely. It was frustratingly out of reach, but close enough to bluff.

“I know you,” I said.

He froze, just for a moment, and that was just enough time for me. I kicked his hand, breaking his grip and sending the sword through the air. I spun, grabbed it, and pivoted to aim the point at the pulse in his throat. His eyes moved from sword point to me and back again as he debated what he could do.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned him.

With obvious concern, he lifted his hands into the air.

Chest heaving, I glanced at Ethan, a lock of hair across my face, tulle around one shoulder, my skirt slitted to the thigh, and my enemy’s sword in my hands.

Ethan stood above his vampire, the vampire’s katana in his hand, tilted down and just above the vampire’s throat. His hair had come unloosed, gold spilling around his regal face, his tuxedo pristine but for a slice on his left arm. I relaxed incrementally; he was safe.

Ethan took in my near state of dishabille, and his eyes went hot . . . at least before he registered the dress’s unfortunate state.

You’ve ruined another garment.

Technically, I corrected, this asshat made me ruin the garment.

I got a lifted eyebrow for my trouble, but since he hadn’t lost his gleam of arousal, I decided he wasn’t all that irritated. It was his fault for putting me in expensive dresses.

Men and women in their gowns and finery rushed toward King to offer aid.