Page 49 of Bitten Vampire
Slaying artefact.
“The slaying artefact is called Beryl?”
She was a very angry Victorian lady,House says, smug.Turns out, wrath and embroidery weren’t enough, so she took up vampire hunting.Kept a stake in her knitting bag next tothe crochet hooks.Slayed a hundred and seventeenvampires and one particularly rude reverend. When she died, her soul wasbound to her favourite weapon. That one, right there.
I stare at the polished wood. “A human soul in a stake.” Magic-users are strange.
You must keep her out of sight. If anyone discovers her, she will end up in some magical laboratory. Berylwill be helpful. She hums when danger’s near, buzzes if she dislikes someone, and comments on your posture.
“Brilliant,” I mutter. “Just what I need, a Victorian ghost who doubles as an etiquette trainer.”
The stake vibrates.
She likes you,thinks you have good hands.
“Well, I’m glad she’s not judging my hemline.” I shift the satchel onto my shoulder. “All right, I’d better have something to eat before I die for the night. I feel like Gizmo fromGremlins,” I grumble. “The question is, what foodcomplementsvampire-hunting?”
That’s obvious,House says with a laugh.How about steak?
This is going to be a very long night indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
At midnight a thunderstorm rolls in,and by one a.m., rain is bouncing off the pavement. I sit in my car outside The Downbeat, waiting. I know I’m early, but I’d rather be early than late. Slipping out of the house required stealth. Valdarr’s people may be watching, and I couldn’t risk being stopped.
In hindsight, perhaps I should have looked for them, asked for help, passed on a message.
Why didn’t I ask Valdarr for his number?
Even if I wanted to contact him, he’s already grappling with my daylight humanity; adding psychic visions of future accidents and murders is too much. Who would believe a baby vampire muttering about being a seer?
None of this makes sense. I need proof. I need to know—without a shadow of a doubt—that I’m right,undeniable proof. Before I try to convince the heir to the vampire world, I need to convince myself.
And besides, I don’t really know him. Yes, he was my hero today: he kept me safe, kissed my cheek. Almost charmed the pants off me. But that doesn’t mean I trust him. His father killed me.
He’s dangerous.
I’d be a fool to forget that.
I glance at the dashboard clock: thirty minutes to go.
I tug my collar wide and spray the scent-masking magic across my throat and shoulders. It smells as though ash and tomcat wee produced an unfortunate offspring in a compost heap. No wonder it renders me almost invisible—everyone’s simply trying to escape the stench.
Raincoat on, spell satchel slung across my body, I step into the downpour. I move quickly, purposefully, knees knocking. If I were still human my heart would be pounding, but now it is silent. Vampire calm, one small perk.
The air reeks of urine, cheap perfume, and the sour stench of alcohol. After I check the alley, I wedge myself between the brickwork and a recessed doorway. Perfect: narrow enough to hide, angled enough to see. Rain smears the alley into greys and shadows. I watch. Time ticks on…
And then it happens.
Right on cue, the fire door bangs open. The vision unfolds, step by step. The girl staggers out, heels wobbling. The vampire follows, smiling a mouthful of teeth.
I grip the blue glass vial in my palm.
Wait—wait until he is distracted, until he feeds.
He sinks his fangs into her neck.
Now.
