He’s using some sort of whip. Its crude leather is racked with tiny spines that look dangerous and would seem particularly bawdy in other circumstances. There’s a small grin on his face, and the vampire is wearing a hood. He’s seemingly come out of nowhere, from behind a tent.
Skar didn’t see me go down. Vallan and Garroway are on the other side of the camp since we’ve moved away from them, and Lukain is also busy. I’m on my own, and this wildly attractive vampire can’t stop grinning at me. Behind his hood, strands of salt-and-pepper hair flow to his shoulders. He’s slender, and the only imperfection I see on his marble face is a deep scar on his left cheek to his chin, similar to Zefyra’s wound. There’s an eeriesilver glow to his eyes which throws me off-guard at first. They’re inviting eyes, entrancing.
“You must be the Bitch-Queen herself. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he purrs in a voice like thick syrup, before giving me a small nod. He cracks his whip and reels back. “Apologies there’s no time to chat.”
“Who the fuck are you, bloodsucker?” I snarl.
He doesn’t answer, opting to snap the whip at me instead. I’m not used to fighting against a mid-ranged weapon like this, so unpredictable and seemingly chaotic.
This man has complete control over it. When I slap my blade sidelong to cut the strand of spiky leather away from me, a simple twist of his slender wrist coils the tail around my shortsword.
My eyes bulge and his grin widens. He yanks back—
I’m forced forward a few feet before I make the wise decision to release my hold on the sword.
By then it’s too late—
The whipsnapsagain and bites into my forearm like a lightning bolt, flinging my sword high into the air at the same time. I hiss, pulling back, and see a dozen small pinpricks beading with blood on my arm.
It stings more than it hurts.
Rather than ruminate over the blood trickling down my arm, spiraling between my fingers, I rush the vampire while he stands there gloating. He pushes back on his feet effortlessly. Around him, bodies swarm into view from around other tents, swift and ghost-footed.
The broad brims of their tricorn hats are the first thing I notice from the newcomers.
Fuck.“Aramastun’s judgemen!” I scream to anyone around me who can hear. “Ghosts, get out of here!”
My opponent rushes forward, now that I’m panicked. Surprisingly, the judgemen spread out away from us, darting toward other pockets of battle behind me. A couple go to meet Skartovius and Lukain, who have just noticed me and the elegant vampire I’m fighting against.
It’s that split second of hesitation that costs me—my distraction as seeing Skar’s eyes widen, the nobleblood rushing to meet me in combat.
The silver-eyed bloodsucker in front of me slips beneath my guard, jamming the handle of his whip against my side. I let out anoofand stumble back—
Catching another crack of the whip against my other arm, dotting it with nettling pricks that smart and make me peel my lip back in frustration. The whip comes away dripping with blood. Dripping with Loreblood.
“That should do it,” the vampire smirks as I backpedal to regroup.
“W-What—”
He turns and sprints away, his preternatural speed something I could never catch up to. Winding around tent flaps and makeshift aisles created by the copse of hovels around us, he vanishes into the dust storm swelling across the North Mines.
There’s a whistle a second later. Judgemen begin to depart, dancing away from their attackers, spinning away blades with their curved swords, and dispersing into the night.
“Don’t give chase!” Lukain cries, noticing some uppity Gilded Ghosts trying to run down the retreating soldiers. “It will only lead to your deaths!”
I watch after the silver-eyed vampire until he’s no longer in sight. There’s no way I’m chasing that fucker with his persnickety whip and the way he uses it.
I wring my wrist and hand out, seething as the stinging in both forearms becomes worse. My breath rattles in my throat and I stare out—
Jolting when Skar’s hand lands on my shoulder. “Temptress, are you all right?” He stares directly into my face, and must see the distraught expression there, because he looks frightened for me.
“Y-Yes. I’m fine, Skar. Just a couple pinpricks.”
The nobleblood grunts and takes me by the hand. “Come, love, the Ghosts have procured the silver. It’s time to escape back into the tunnels.”
I nod, following him blindly. I swoop my discarded shortsword off the ground and sweep my gaze around the camp. Smoke and small fires billow in pockets of the field. Dust hangs thick and choking in the air. I trip over a limp form and stagger sideways when I recognize jet-black hair poking out from the crater in the ground where a head should be.
Seems Cordea didn’t fare too well against her old foreman. It’s a shame, because at one point, I kind of liked the stone-cold bitch and the jibing we would get into. She reminded me of me. Now her chest is caved in, her heart is missing, the rest of her is in utter ruin, and I don’t think she’ll be walking this one off.