Page 8 of What Fools These Immortals Be
Because he is that. A vampire.
A vampire, and…
Oh, no.
I glance at Asher, once, as this stranger stops before me. No one has moved to intercept him—perhaps as stunned into silence as I am—but maybe, too, because Asher’s lips have thinned, Vasile looks amused, and Deacon is rolling his eyes.
“You’re the crai?” the man asks. His tone is dismissive, his accent a pleasant burr.
“I am.”
“Fantastic,” he replies, and I am certain he could not sound less enthusiastic if he tried. “I’m Maurice. I suppose I’ll be your new bodyguard.”
Chapter Three
Maurice
Asherishere.I’venot crossed paths with him in a century, probably, and one look at his face is enough to tell me why.
He’s furious.
Can any of them tell? Or am I the only one to notice the twitch in his jaw, the way he is subtly shifting his weight so he can spring into action to protect his charge?
He’s with the wolf, of course. A vampire stands close by—the wolf’s mate—looking mostly amused by the entire situation.
The new crai just gapes at me. I should probably tell him to stop. It’s not terribly authoritative of him.
“I—You—”
I shake my head and glare around at the crowd. “Don’t you all have a party to be enjoying?”
Faint titters turn into giggles, but being blunt does the job. Oh, I have no doubt they’re all still listening, all desperate to find out who I am and why I’m here, but at least theylooklike they’re enjoying themselves.
“I’m Maurice,” I say again. “You’re Njáll?”
Someone help me, but if he’s going to be this useless the entire time, I might just have to face the Huntsman’s wrath. Thankfully, his name seems to bring the new crai back to himself; he blinks narrowed blue eyes and nods once.
“Njáll Vilulfson.” He sticks out his hand.
I shake it. He’s not pretty—no one could pretend that. He’s far too rough-looking, something wild lurking in the back of his eyes.
If I knew no better, I might take him for a wolf.
“You won’t be staying,” he says next, and I smile despite myself.
“That’s not up to you.”
He lets go of my hand, adjusting his jacket slightly. He’s not used to wearing it, or the shirt that’s buttoned up to his throat. “You asked if I was crai.”
“I did.”
“Then you understand that I’m in charge of all of this?”
Ooh. That shouldn’t have been a question, and when his eyes meet mine, he knows it. The faintest hint of colour creeps into his cheeks.
“I understand that our beliefs on that matter may differ,” I say, and my smile is sly. “But they are, also, irrelevant. The Huntsman has tasked me with your protection, and I serve the Hunt.”
“You do?”
