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“Over the last year, I’ve killed death vampires. That kind of how much.”
The boy clearly had an attitude but … shit. “How many, for Christ’s sake?”
“Enough.”
“Ballpark?”
“Maybe twenty.”
Thorne’s neck whipped up and back. How the hell was that even possible? “And why are you out killing pretty-boys?”
“Well,” he drawled. “Someone has to get the job done.”
Thorne wanted to grab this young man by the nape of his neck and shake him hard. What right did he have to bust Thorne’s chops about the need for more dead death vampires—and what the f**k was he doing risking his life by attacking them in the first place? Even Militia Warriors, trained for years, had to work in squads of four just to bring down one pretty-boy. And this kid was killing them single-handedly? Unless …
“You work alone?”
“Sometimes.”
Sweet God almighty. “You mean there are others taking such stupid risks?”
Arthur’s jaw turned to flint. He even took an aggressive step toward Thorne. “I only speak for myself.” So the answer was yes. “When there ain’t anybody else around to do a job, then yeah, I do it. Have you got a problem with that, Warrior?”
Essentially, no, but this kid was young. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen.”
He wanted to knock some sense into the kid, but now the hairs on his nape rose. From long experience, he knew exactly what that meant.
He released Marguerite and stepped away from her so that he could fold his identified sword into his hand. Swords could be identified to the Warriors of the Blood and to Militia Warriors as well. Just touching a sword identified to someone else would cause death. “Diallo, I’d appreciate it if you’d take Marguerite somewhere safe while Arthur and I tend to business.”
“Hey, don’t I get a say in this?”
Thorne just looked at her, his fingers working the grip. “You do if you can fight death vampires, because by my tally, my sense of what’s moving in the forest, we have at least eight pretty-boys coming straight at us.”
She lifted both hands. “Point taken.” She turned to Diallo. “So what kind of digs do you have in this place?”
Diallo smiled. “I have a cabin ready for guests at all times, but I also had a feeling.”
“You’ve been expecting us?”
“One of my Seers, Brynna, had a vision of you in the cabin a month or so ago. That was all I needed to hear.”
Thorne glared at them both. He needed his woman away from what he knew would quickly turn into a battle zone.
Marguerite glanced at him, her brows raised. “My boyfriend’s getting impatient with us. You up to folding us out of here?”
Thorne mentally tripped over the fact that she’d just called him her boyfriend. Well, f**k him for liking it so much.
Diallo said, “Yes, of course.”
Diallo put his hand on Marguerite’s shoulder, a gesture that tightened Thorne’s stomach despite the necessary and innocuous nature of the contact. Even in a critical situation like this, the breh-hedden would have its say. The pair vanished.
He turned toward Arthur. “How much battle training have you had at the various camps on Second Earth?”
“Since I was a kid. I took to it.”
“Why aren’t you with the Militia Warriors?”
At that, something seemed to settle inside the young warrior. “I didn’t think the war would follow me here.”
Thorne so got that. Well, it wasn’t his place to judge why Arthur Robillard, great-grandson to Jean-Pierre, was here in a Mortal Earth rogue colony. But he also understood that even though Arthur’s intention had been to escape the war, the war had found him anyway, and probably for a reason that would be a blessing to the villagers.
“They’re coming,” Arthur said.
“Yep.” Thorne turned in a circle, stretching his preternatural hearing. He could hear the soft pads of footsteps through the forest.
“I’m hearing seven, maybe eight.”
Thorne glanced at him. “You can hear that?”
Arthur nodded, his gaze fixed forward.
“Looks like Jean-Pierre’s genes found a home.”
Arthur smiled just off to the left side of his mouth. Sweet Jesus, he’d seen that smile on Jean-Pierre’s lips. The Robillards had kinda strange lips but he knew for a fact that the women went for them, a full lower lip and the upper more pointed than most. It was so strange seeing Jean-Pierre in this kid’s face.
Thorne looked up and down the village. The homes were scattered down a narrow valley on opposite sides of a stream. The air was cold, maybe forty degrees.
Arthur frowned at him then asked, “How do you want to play this? Do you intend to mount your wings?”
“Only if I have to. When I battle with my brothers, we keep things about nine feet apart and try to maintain a back-to-back posture. That will keep these bastards from getting behind either of us. So how many have you fought at once? And tell me the goddam truth. I need to know what I can expect out of you.”
“Not many,” he said. “Five, I think.”
Thorne about dropped his sword. “You battled five, all at one time, by yourself, and lived to tell?”
Arthur raised a brow. “Like that’s hard?”
Thorne chuckled. The kid knew how to front.
Arthur crouched slightly and inclined his head slightly to the northwest, up the valley and toward the wall of trees. “There.”
Thorne glanced in the direction of Arthur’s gaze and the first three pretty-boys emerged.
Arthur offered a raspberry sound, which brought them turning as a group in Thorne’s direction.
“You always taunt death vampires?”
Arthur just smiled that smile again. Damn, he looked just like Jean-Pierre.
Thorne glanced down the valley then inclined his head. “We’ve got a few more on the other side of that building.”
“Looks like we’re going to have to split up.”
“You think you can handle this?”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Blow me,” he said, turning on his heel. He started to move then blurred away from Thorne. Only Kerrick could move as fast as that. Shit, what the f**k was he looking at? He knew. He already knew. A future Warrior of the Blood.
By this time, the party from the north was almost on him. He’d been listening to their breathing and their whispers. When he turned, he raised his sword. It was game on.
