The Vampire & Her Witch

Erling let out a shuddering breath of relief the instant he saw Lord Owain plunge his sword into the chest of the majestic, imperial elk. After a day of hunting and chasing, being driven through the forest that should have been a peaceful home for the remainder of the winter, the torment had finally ended, and the elk was down.

In the end, his bow hadn’t been needed to keep the beast from fleeing. Just like last time, when the old Marquis had asked a much younger Erling to be ready to stop a boar from fleeing, the precaution had been completely unnecessary. But Erling had learned long ago that the preparations you didn’t need were the ones that kept you alive, and the ones you skipped were the ones that caused the most trouble.

He unstrung the horn bow with practiced hands, releasing the tension from the limbs the way a man might unclench a fist after bracing for a blow that never came. The familiar sequence of motions, easing the loop, feeling the limbs straighten, checking the string for fraying, combined to settle his nerves the way few other things could. By the time the bow was back in its leather case, his heartbeat was once again smooth and even, along with his breathing.

Below him, the hollow had erupted into controlled chaos. Huntsmen rushed forward to secure the elk’s carcass. Hound handlers dragged the last of the dogs back from the kill, though more than one had to be pulled bodily from the scent of fresh blood.

Servants appeared from somewhere in the column with cloths and water, and Sir Gilander was already issuing orders about the return journey with the quiet efficiency of a man who had managed the aftermath of a lord’s hunt more times than he could count.

Owain stood over the fallen elk, breathing hard, Fallen Claw still in his hand. Hot blood covered the blade, his gauntlets, and the front of his gambeson, giving him a savage, lethal air as he stood over his defeated foe. The only mark on the future marquis was a long tear in the quilted fabric over his right shoulder that showed where the elk’s antler had caught him during the charge.

As the servants approached, Owain drove the point of Fallen Claw into the soft soil, resting his hands on the pommel while he allowed one of them to inspect the damage. Erling watched from the slope as the servant carefully peeled back the torn layers of the gambeson, revealing the shoulder beneath.

There was no blood staining the fabric. The quilted armor had done exactly what it was designed to do, absorbing the impact and distributing the force across layers of stitched padding. But the flesh beneath would be a spectacular tapestry of purple and black by morning, and Owain’s shoulder would likely be stiff for days afterward.

Owain rolled his arm once, testing its range experimentally as he flexed his arm before he dismissed the servant with a flick of his fingers. If the pain bothered him, nothing in his expression betrayed it.

A bruise would slow him down in a duel or a battle against a demon, but Owain wouldn’t need to fight again before the coronation. By the time he gathered the barons to ride west against the demons who had attacked the Summer Villa, his arm would be fully healed.

The thought struck Erling with a chill that had nothing to do with the winter air. The gathered barons all riding west. Riding out against demons who had attacked the Summer Villa. No one had said anything about it, but everyone felt like the call was coming.

Raids against the hamlets of the Dunns or the caravans of the Hanrahans were one thing, but Lord Owain wasn’t the sort of man who would suffer an attack on his family’s holdings without finding a way to retaliate. Erling might have managed to avoid an invitation to go ’hunting’ for demons with the Bors Lothian’s heir, but he would never be able to refuse a summons by Marquis Owain Lothian to ride against the demons who had attacked so close to the heart of his domain.

That was a problem for days for now, however, and Erling pushed the thought away in order to focus on what was happening in front of him.

”Sir Franc,” Owain said, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise of the hollow. The chaos quieted around him as men and dogs alike responded to the unspoken command for attention when he called out to his vassal rather than waving him over. ”You led the final leg of the drive?”

”Yes, my Lord,” Sir Franc said as he stepped forward and bowed. ”The elk broke the encirclement to the north, but we were able to redirect it south and resume the drive. Lord Reynold Aleese was instrumental in turning the beast when it attempted to flee through the rapids.”

”Lord Reynold,” Owain called loudly as his gaze lifted to the slope where Reynold sat his horse, still carrying the cracked spear across his shoulder. ”I promised you a place in my vanguard this morning,” he said, his lips widening into a smile that felt slightly unsettling on the face of a man who was still covered in blood from his recent kill.

”It seems you’ve earned your place at my side ahead of schedule,” Owain said, as though he were conferring a great honor.

”My Lord,” Reynold began, his gray eyes cutting toward Erling with an uncomfortable expression that suggested that he was about to set the record straight.

But when their eyes met, Erling shook his head.

It was a small motion, barely more than a shift of his chin, but Reynold caught it, and the words he was about to speak died on his lips. The Aleese heir’s jaw worked, the same grinding motion that Erling had watched all day, but after a long heartbeat, he swallowed whatever he’d been about to say and dipped his chin in a curt nod that only Erling could see.

”It was my honor to serve, Lord Owain,” Reynold said, and the flatness in his voice could have been mistaken for humility by anyone who hadn’t spent the last several hours learning how the man really sounded when he meant what he said.

”Then come down,” Owain said, gesturing with his left arm for Reynold to join him. ”I need you and Sir Franc to hold the antlers,” he said as he pulled the tip of Fallen Claw free of the earth and rested the flat of the blade across his shoulders.

There was, after all, one last blow that he needed to strike...