The Fall of Lady Westwood (17 page)

The Lady’s fingers twirled and tugged at his chest hair. Occasionally, she would gently tweak one of the man’s nipples between delicate finger and thumb. Arnaud had discreetly looked away as the Lady had moved aside the top buttons of her robe, allowing Clayton’s head to lie directly upon the olive curves of her generous breasts. The bodice of her chemise had been loosened such that the white lace only just hid her nipples from Arnaud’s gaze.

“He will want her, Mistress. He won’t leave without her.”

She winked at her overseer. “If I have my way, neither one of them will be leaving here anytime soon.”

An unholy screeching noise of metal upon metal sounded from outside, followed by a tremendous boom that seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet. Arnaud stood, his hand on his sword, his eyes darting from the door to the window that looked down upon the courtyard below.

Lady Westwood’s cool eyes narrowed. “What was that awful —”

“The portcullis, Mistress.” Arnaud strode for the door. He paused looking back at her. “Stay here. Someone has dropped the gate.”

The Mistress nodded, slipping out from under Clayton’s unconscious form. She rushed to her wardrobe, retrieving her short sword.

Walking to the window, she looked down upon the courtyard outside. “Gods,” she whispered, backing slowly away, drawing her sword from the intricately decorated scabbard.

There was a heavy thud against her door, and she whirled around, both hands on the grip of her weapon. The lethal point of the tip shook before her.

The door partially opened, and she glided toward it, silent, her blade raised for a killing blow. Then she lowered the sword, her expression puzzled.

Arnaud slipped through the door, leaning a heavy shoulder against the wood. He threw the bolt and locked it with shaking fingers. He turned his gaze to the Lady. His face looked ashen, his eyes wide, their movement nervous.

“Mistress, step back I beg you.” He turned back toward the door, bringing his own broadsword up before him. He slowly backed away from the door.

“How did so many get in Arnaud?” she hissed, her own sword still up, standing somewhat behind the overseer. “Who are they?”

“It’s the
Nocturne
, Mistress.”

“Oh dear Gods. Vampires.”

The door shuddered, shaking in the heavy frame. A deep rattling growl could be heard on the other side. A strangled, pain-filled scream spiraled upward out in the courtyard, the blood-curdling tone finally cut off mid note.

“How many,” she whispered, her tongue licking dry lips. “Did you see how many made the keep?”

“The light was low, Mistress, but there were several. At - at least five.”

She cursed under her breath.

“By the door, Arnaud,” the Lady said, shoving his shoulder. “They’ll let their guard down if they see only me.”

He nodded, skirting around the room, until his shoulder pressed against the wall, just to the side of the doorway. Another harder thud on the door, and both Arnaud and the Lady jerked.

Horses began whinnying and then screaming outside in the stables. The tearing, dry sound of wood being shattered could be clearly heard. There was the irregular clop of hooves, then a man yelling at someone to get out of the way, his voice cracking with strain.

The door shuddered, then part of it gave way, splinters and dust flying into the room. A large hand reached through the hole in the wood, the long fingers tipped with sharp gray nails. The remainder of the door groaned and blew inward, pieces of wood striking the Lady. She cried out, raising her sword and moving forward. Two of the black-clad
nocturne
, both easily a head taller than Arnaud’s six feet, strode into the room, their movement startlingly quick.

Arnaud’s sword slashed up into the torso of the second vampire. There was a great wet-sounding cry and the figure pitched forward clutching at the bloody gash left by the sword’s blade. The first vampire turned in a swift fluid movement, grasping Arnaud around the throat and pinning him against the wall. The overseer emitted a high pitched gurgle, scratching at the arm that held him. Arnaud’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, his eyes wide with terror.

Lady Westwood struck then, running the sword completely up under the vampire’s arm, the blade plunging deep into the upper chest. She staggered back as the vampire, yelling in pain, lashed at her with his free hand, the sword left to vibrate in his body.

The vampire grasped the grip of the sword and ran it back out, pained grunting accompanying the passage of the lethal blade. Arnaud gasped repeatedly, still struggling against the implacable hand around his throat.

The vampire that Arnaud had cut down stood haltingly up, and turned his gaze to the Lady. It was then that she could see the brilliant flaming silver of the eyes. She screamed then, stumbling backwards. “No! No!”

The vampire flashed forward, gripping her by the hair and cranking her head back. “You’re coming with us, Lady Westwood.” He looked back at his companion, who still held the overseer pinned against the wall.

The vampire holding Arnaud moved close to the man, until their faces were inches apart. “Where we’re going you cannot follow, human.”

The vampire’s mouth filled with long gray fangs. Arnaud struggles intensified, the man uttering a high-pitched squealing. Then the vampire chewed into Arnaud’s throat, tearing the larynx out, then biting deeper, the dying man’s bright blood pouring out onto the vampire’s wrist and forearm.

The Lady screamed, clawing at the arm holding her hair fast. The vampire holding her drew close, his fiery gaze locked with hers. “Before we go, there is something else I want from you,
my
Lady
.”

“Kill me! Please! Make it quick, I beg you.” Her hands clamped on to the vampire’s wrist, pulling at it.

“Oh, what would be the fun in that, Lady Westwood? We have much more planned for you, we do.”

The vampire holding Arnaud threw his lifeless body to the floor as it were a child’s doll. He nodded at Miriam. “We need to move quickly, Marshall.”

She screamed again when she saw the fangs of the vampire holding her lengthen, his eyes burning yet brighter. The vampire wrenched her head back exposing the vulnerable throat. She gasped as the fangs sank into the delicate flesh of her neck. Her arms weakened then dropped away, limp. His hand traveled down her torso as he drank from her, squeezing a plump breast through the thin lace of her chemise. Her whole body soon grew still, consciousness leaving her.

* * *

Sophie lay with her chin on Owen’s chest, luxuriating in the sound of his breathing. She could see his eyes moving under the lids. Was he dreaming? Dreaming of her?

She kissed his firm flesh, rubbing her cheek against the thin layer of light hair there. She suspected he’d have a hairy chest — her favorite kind — when he was older, but now in his comparative youth, he only had the hint of it. She wondered if she might be getting too far ahead of herself, but she tried to picture what he’d look like when he was older, perhaps even his father Isaac’s age? A beautiful lad would no doubt grow to be a beautiful man as well.

She heard a sharp cry.

Owen’s head snapped up, his eyes blinking rapidly. Then he was off the bed in a heartbeat, pulling his robes back on.

“What is it?” She struggled at her shift, trying to get it to move down her sweat-soaked flesh.

“Something’s happening. We need to go.”

She scrambled off her bed.

There was a piercing sound of groaning metal, then the whole building seemed to shake, dust falling from the ceiling. Owen cursed.

“Is this part of the plan, Owen?”

“It’ll be alright, Sophie.” The haunted look in his eyes told her the truth of it though. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to panic.

He donned his hood again, his face cast once more into shadow. A scream sounded outside, close, and she put her hands to her ears.

Owen grabbed her by the wrist, threw the bolt and yanked open the door. The hallway was deserted, but she could hear sobs from a couple of the rooms nearby.

“Owen, we should at least unlock them.”

He shook his head. “There’s no time.”

They dashed through the dark hallway and out into the torch lit courtyard. She froze in terror at the sight she beheld there.

There were guards lying everywhere, most of them horribly injured or already dead. She saw movement above and looked up. Yelling in horror, a man plummeted down from the battlements, his body striking the dirt with a sickening crunch. Two guards nearby, both armed with swords, fought desperately, metal clashing with metal, with two very tall men clad in long dark coats swinging huge shimmering blades. She’d never seen anyone like them before, and she took a step toward the group, her feet seemingly moving on their own.

“Come on,” Owen said, his voice harsh in her ear. She felt her arm yanked hard, and she stumbled after him. They ran across the courtyard toward a wagon covered with a all, dark shroud, the horses harnessed to it neighing and bucking against their bonds. Another tall man in black robes strode toward them, and for a moment, Sophie balked, pulling at Owen’s grip.

“It’s okay. It’s Hugh.” Owen hauled on her arm, keeping her moving. “He’s with my father’s guild. He’s helping us.”

The man dropped his hood, and smiled at Sophie, the deep friendly lines around his blue eyes softening his gruff, bearded countenance. “Glad to see you, lass.”

Owen looked around. “Where’s my father?”

Hugh’s expression sobered. “He and Galan went looking for you.”

Owen shook his head, anger in his eyes. “What is he doing? That wasn’t what we talked about.”

“Neither was all this,” Hugh said, waving a hand. He pointed behind him. “We have a bigger problem now, lad.”

The portcullis was down. They were trapped.

“We need to get that gate back up, or we’re done for,” Hugh said, helping Owen lift Sophie up into the wagon. The night brightened suddenly, and all three of them ducked. A great explosion blasted into the sky from the direction of the stables, followed by a billowing ball of flame and smoke rising into the air.

“Dear Lord,” Hugh muttered. “We’ve got to get her out of here.”

Owen clapped Hugh on the shoulder. “Stay here with Sophie. I’ll try to find the windlass and get that gate up.”

“Here, take this.” Hugh pressed a sword into Owen’s hands. The farmhand leaned over the edge of the wagon and pressed an urgent kiss to Sophie’s lips. “Keep your head down. Hugh will protect you.”

“Wait! Owen!” she called out, but he was already gone, darting into the darkness, the clang of weapons and screams of the dead and dying all around. She ducked her head as something flew by close overhead, the air currents rippling the dark fabric that covered the wagon.

“Get down lassie, he’ll be back,” Hugh said, his hand pushing down on her shoulder. She dropped down to the floor of the wagon, trying to ignore the sounds of horror all around her. She felt the wagon shift, and Hugh’s face peeked in at her from the driver’s seat. He flashed a quick reassuring smile, then was gone again.

The wagon began to roll, slowly at first, then lurching up to speed. Another series of booms echoed through the courtyard, interspersed with harsh male voices cursing and shouting. Sophie heard a woman’s scream and she peeked out of the shroud.

Stumbling across the yard, her ankles linked in a short hobble chain, was the woman Sophie had seen in the field pulling the plow. Her arms were bound tightly behind her back, the leather girth squeezing her waist in its brutal embrace. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“Here! Tani! Get in!” Sophie leaned out, waving her arms out of the side of the shroud. Tani turned her head toward Sophie’s voice, the woman’s expression turning confused when she recognized her.

Then Sophie saw him. It was the plowboy, Escott.

He was shuffling after Tani. His right arm hung limp, the whole right side of his body covered in soot and blood. He had been burned, badly.

Sophie nearly called to him too, but it was too late. Someone rushed up on the boy from behind, tackling him to the ground. In the low light it was difficult to see who it was, but it definitely was not a guard, the attacker much too tall, the clothing dark, perhaps black.

The man who’d tackled the plowboy pinned him facedown to the ground, and Sophie could see too-long fingers, complete with sharp nails, wrap around the struggling boy’s head, pulling him up in a straining arch, Escott’s eyes rolling back, showing the whites.

She cried out, covering her mouth as she saw the bright blade flash down, slashing into Escott. The boy uttered a lost, agonized groan, then lay still. His attacker leaned down close to the dead boy’s head, as if he were whispering to him.

Sophie turned back to Tani. A man in black hooded robes dashed out of the darkness toward the fleeing woman, and Sophie cried out. “Tani, hurry!”

The bound woman reached the side of the moving wagon. With Tani’s hands bound, Sophie struggled to pull her in. Finally, she got the upper half of Tani’s body up over the side, her legs dangling off the ground. The robed man reached them before Sophie could pull her all the way in, the man grabbing Tani’s kicking legs. The woman shrieked, craning her face up at Sophie. “Oh Gods, don’t let them—”