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D’fhiri panted heavily, finally on top. She had him right where she wanted him.
So why was it that she simply couldn’t do it? The wooden stake, when she needed it most, felt flimsy and dull in her hand.
How long had they been doing this song and dance? At twenty-three summers, D’fhiri didn’t have to know much math to figure that out for herself. The bloodsucking Ascians had been hovering about her since she first took up the art of monster hunting at eighteen, leaving her Miqo’te clan to pursue a life of battle against the forces of darkness. She’d earned the title of Vampire Slayer by specializing in these creatures of the night, in knowing the best ways to corner and kill, in learning everything about them, all the way down to their names.
At the beginning of time was when this one had started, she suspected.
Hythlodaeus.
Of all the Ascians, he was her enigma. Clever, cunning, more gregarious than Emet-Selch, less dedicated to rules and customs than Elidibus. He was equal parts terrifying and infuriating, having a reputation for being a slayer of Slayers. She’d studied the texts on him. There were numerous historic illustrations of his wispy braid and slender, chiseled face. Catlike, he toyed with his prey, often seducing them before going in for the kill.
Even the best charcoal portrait impressions in dusty tomes, however, never got the details of him right. The glowing hue of his lavender eyes, the pale violet of his hair. The way his mouth moved in gentle, subtle quirks. The singsong lilt of his voice, his poetic manner of speech.
All of it made for a very alluring mark. One temptation that definitely wasn’t working on D’fhiri.
No, it certainly wasn’t. Absolutely not as she straddled him on the ornate, plush rug of his immaculately decorated lair, accented with gothic adornments and pops of lilac throughout. The loose strands of his mane fanned out around his gently smiling face, as if he’d arranged them carefully instead of having been thrown here by the last flying kick D’fhiri landed to his chest. His expression was that of adoration, perhaps even admiration. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“I’m impressed, dear Slayer,” he purred, a hand tipped in metal claws carefully playing with the edge on her shirt, drawing out goosebumps as the sharp edges played against the skin on her hips. “It has been a long time, indeed, since someone has bested me so easily.”
Always flirting, these vampires. She ought to be wearing bodysuits and covering every inch.
“I’d watch the lies, if I were you. I know your type.” She dug the point of the stake a little more aggressively into the spot above his unbeating heart. “Do you really need an excuse for me to finally finish you off?”
“Tsk, so hasty. And after I was so helpful to you earlier. Is this my repayment?”
“Consider it a follow-up.”
If there was one thing that D’fhiri had learned during her time as a Slayer, it was that sometimes it was necessary to dip one’s toes into the dark side. Even the most vile demons in the dankest underground bars had helpful slivers of information to offer if you knew the right drink to buy them. Often, they were actually eager to betray their brethren. In Hythlodaeus’s case, though, she suspected he was playing the long game and baiting her to come along for the ride.
The evening hours leading up to this moment were hellish. It was a long story, but ultimately involved seven hellhounds, a molotov cocktail, and a bucket of pig fat, and D’fhiri was utterly and completely exhausted. But she knew who had orchestrated the entire thing and other important details thanks to the Ascian who currently shifted uncomfortably beneath her. Which meant that he was likely part of the plan to kidnap Urianger in the first place.
Hythlodaeus put a finger to his lip in mock thoughtfulness, a disarming look of sobriety crossing his face. “I hope my information was accurate, was it not? I only wished to provide the best for you.”
“It’s not the tip that’s the problem,” she said through gritted teeth. “It’s the fact that you knew that information at all.” His claws had trailed to her back. She hissed as he gave her hip a squeeze, the razor tips of his gloves digging into her flesh.
This was part of the battle, she reminded herself. All she had to do was keep her head level. Avoid the heavy-lidded lust — or was it trust? — in his gaze. Do not dare to spare a glance toward his thin, expert lips.
“What game are you playing at?” she hissed.
“Not a one,” he said, with such innocent sincerity that she almost believed him. Almost.
Perhaps sensing the hesitation in her expression, with a practiced swing of his hips Hythlodaeus flipped them over. D’fhiri grunted in pain as her spine slammed the carpet. Her grip gave way; the stake clattered across the floor.
“But if you wished to play games,” he crooned, “I would not be opposed to taking suggestions. You see, it has been some time since anyone has intrigued me quite so much.” He casually propped his head on a hand, his arm so long that his elbow reached the floor and still he hovered over her. With a lover’s caress, he traced the edges of her face.
She froze beneath him, tried to ignore the fact that his featherlight touch was sending tingling goosebumps through her neck and arms.
His pupils were so blown wide that she could see the reflection of her own face in them, flushed and unkempt and angry.
“You look…”
“Delicious?” she spat.
“Well, that as well,” he said, chuckling. “But I was going to say beautiful. Your face takes the prettiest hue when you’re angry.”
Doubt flashed hotly through her. “You don’t mean that.”
“Despite what you seem to think, my dearest, I would not tell you a lie.”
Liar.
Although if she took a moment to think about it, he hadn’t ever lied to her. Had only ever been honest about who he was, what he was. Had teased her, toyed with her, hurt her and those she loved to further some mysterious agenda of his ancient Vampiric organization. But he had never lied.
“That doesn’t mean I should trust you.”
“Is that what you think I want?” He blinked slowly. “Trust?”
No sooner had she began to wiggle to gain any kind of leverage, she noticed a certain… hardness between her thighs. Her eyes narrowed. She knew he was cold and stiff, but this was absurd. “Getting off on this, are you?”
“Hardly,” he said, chuckling lightly. “Just enjoying the view.”
Absolutely shameless.
He braced his palm against her shoulder and leaned in, fangs flashing. D’fhiri struggled against him. But even with adrenaline coursing through her veins, she couldn’t find purchase on his chest properly to push up against him. Breath quickening, her eyes grew wide with terror.
She’d been bitten once — long ago, when she’d let her guard down around someone she once knew before they’d been turned. It was sheer luck that she hadn’t died from that encounter. At the hospital, they’d given her several infusions, and she’d still been laid up recovering for longer than she would have liked.
Nothing was more eerie or violating, than having the essence of your very life drawn from your body. There was pain, yes, but also the woozy euphoria as the brain struggled to function with the lack of oxygen. There was an exhaustion and sense of warmth, the very will of fighting back being eaten from you ilm by ilm.
Hythlodaeus had her right where he wanted her. And all it had taken was a moment’s hesitation, a weakness for his attractive androgyny, the persistent, needling echo of a late night’s wondering of what his mouth might taste like if she gave it a try.
Expecting the sharpness of fangs, the soft drag of his tongue against the line of her carotid artery made her whimper in something between fear and pleasure. He laughed again, his breath tickling against her ear.
“Did you think this was the end, my dear friend? We are only just getting started.”