eyes, and so when the body animated, I saw everything.
There was no twitch of muscle, no stirring of breath. The eyes of the gypsy simply opened, the hands flew up, fingers clawed, as he sprang into attack. The action was utterly unexpected, and it took Fox by surprise, which allowed the vampire to throw off the stake. As the weapon hit the floor, rolling beyond the pool of the lamplight, Fox staggered back a step, brought the mallet up, and swung the massive head with an audible whoosh as the corpse rose.
There was no question the fiend was, in truth, alive, not when I saw it draw back its blood-red lips. Fangs—nothing less than this term can suffice to describe the unnatural canines protruding from under the heavy black slash of the vampire’s mustaches—gleamed. Its eyes glowed malevolently, and it reached for Fox.
Fox slammed the head of the mallet into the creature with a force that stunned it, but did not repel it for long. Catching itsbalance with shocking agility, it lunged forward and grabbed Fox by the throat. Fox did something with his hand, a sharp jab to the neck made with dazzling and seemingly unnatural swiftness, and the gypsy hissed and sprang back.
“Fox!” I shouted, and snatched the rope of garlic from the peg, tossing it to him. His hand lashed out and caught it in midair. The gypsy grew more wary, eyeing the herb.
“Get the stake!” Fox barked, but I was already on my knees, feeling around in the dark. I kept one eye on the creature. Its empty black eyes, when not fixed on the garlic, flickered to me. Its hateful mouth worked over those hideous teeth, and my fingers went nerveless with fear.
“Here it is,” I called, standing and turning in one motion when suddenly the gypsy lashed forward. I dropped the stake as Fox and I jumped apart to avoid the strike. Now the gypsy was in the middle of us. He immediately turned toward me.
His face was eager. The words he had spoken earlier drummed in my head. Your mother will weep, Dhampir. You should have stayed asleep.
It was not a moment later when the pointed tip of the stake burst through the gypsy’s chest. There was no fountain of blood, no thrashing protests. He—it—simply fell to the ground, first to its knees, then back, the stake protruding squarely in the middle of its chest.
I gaped, awed by the sudden transformation as the pall of death leeched the color from the creature’s face, bleaching it rapidly before my eyes. The point of the stake was rusty with dried blood. Fox had pierced it straight through, spearing the revenant with astonishing force. His strength took me by surprise, for he was lean, and though by no means frail, his lithe, elegant formdid not give the impression of being capable of such power. But then I called to mind how he had lifted me so easily onto his horse when he’d carried Henrietta and me away from The Sanctuary. He had surprised me then, too.
The gypsy’s mouth worked vaguely, and I imagined it was trying one last time to sneer at me, as if it weren’t defeated at all. As if it knew some secret that consoled it as it slipped into death.
I felt numb. Over and over, I told myself that we together had not killed a man. It was already dead, I repeated in my mind, hoping to make it real.
Fox went down on one knee beside the body. “Quickly. The servants will be up soon.”
I did not move for a moment. My world had tilted, and I was off balance. Disbelief—despite the evidence of my eyes—held me in its fist. It is the nature of human love for predictability, safety, and the comfort of the known to want to deny that which threatens those things. At this moment, my every instinct wanted to flee from what had just happened. Had there been a retreat, some method to coil myself into a safer reality, I would have fled gladly.
No such blessing came, however, and eventually I recovered slightly, and fell in beside him. Moving mechanically, furtively, I worked together with Fox to perform the laborious
There was no twitch of muscle, no stirring of breath. The eyes of the gypsy simply opened, the hands flew up, fingers clawed, as he sprang into attack. The action was utterly unexpected, and it took Fox by surprise, which allowed the vampire to throw off the stake. As the weapon hit the floor, rolling beyond the pool of the lamplight, Fox staggered back a step, brought the mallet up, and swung the massive head with an audible whoosh as the corpse rose.
There was no question the fiend was, in truth, alive, not when I saw it draw back its blood-red lips. Fangs—nothing less than this term can suffice to describe the unnatural canines protruding from under the heavy black slash of the vampire’s mustaches—gleamed. Its eyes glowed malevolently, and it reached for Fox.
Fox slammed the head of the mallet into the creature with a force that stunned it, but did not repel it for long. Catching itsbalance with shocking agility, it lunged forward and grabbed Fox by the throat. Fox did something with his hand, a sharp jab to the neck made with dazzling and seemingly unnatural swiftness, and the gypsy hissed and sprang back.
“Fox!” I shouted, and snatched the rope of garlic from the peg, tossing it to him. His hand lashed out and caught it in midair. The gypsy grew more wary, eyeing the herb.
“Get the stake!” Fox barked, but I was already on my knees, feeling around in the dark. I kept one eye on the creature. Its empty black eyes, when not fixed on the garlic, flickered to me. Its hateful mouth worked over those hideous teeth, and my fingers went nerveless with fear.
“Here it is,” I called, standing and turning in one motion when suddenly the gypsy lashed forward. I dropped the stake as Fox and I jumped apart to avoid the strike. Now the gypsy was in the middle of us. He immediately turned toward me.
His face was eager. The words he had spoken earlier drummed in my head. Your mother will weep, Dhampir. You should have stayed asleep.
It was not a moment later when the pointed tip of the stake burst through the gypsy’s chest. There was no fountain of blood, no thrashing protests. He—it—simply fell to the ground, first to its knees, then back, the stake protruding squarely in the middle of its chest.
I gaped, awed by the sudden transformation as the pall of death leeched the color from the creature’s face, bleaching it rapidly before my eyes. The point of the stake was rusty with dried blood. Fox had pierced it straight through, spearing the revenant with astonishing force. His strength took me by surprise, for he was lean, and though by no means frail, his lithe, elegant formdid not give the impression of being capable of such power. But then I called to mind how he had lifted me so easily onto his horse when he’d carried Henrietta and me away from The Sanctuary. He had surprised me then, too.
The gypsy’s mouth worked vaguely, and I imagined it was trying one last time to sneer at me, as if it weren’t defeated at all. As if it knew some secret that consoled it as it slipped into death.
I felt numb. Over and over, I told myself that we together had not killed a man. It was already dead, I repeated in my mind, hoping to make it real.
Fox went down on one knee beside the body. “Quickly. The servants will be up soon.”
I did not move for a moment. My world had tilted, and I was off balance. Disbelief—despite the evidence of my eyes—held me in its fist. It is the nature of human love for predictability, safety, and the comfort of the known to want to deny that which threatens those things. At this moment, my every instinct wanted to flee from what had just happened. Had there been a retreat, some method to coil myself into a safer reality, I would have fled gladly.
No such blessing came, however, and eventually I recovered slightly, and fell in beside him. Moving mechanically, furtively, I worked together with Fox to perform the laborious
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