Page 89 of Level Up for Love

Chapter

Twenty-Five

“That’s a critical hit,” Wesley announces.

He lifts the edge of his DM’s screen to prove it, and sure enough, his black twenty-sided die sits with the 20 facing straight up. The entire table erupts in groans and curses, with Mona’s high-pitched voice coming in an octave above the rest: “Are you fucking kidding me? On your first roll of the night?”

This bodes well.

Rolling a 20 for an attack means that the attack will do twice as much damage as usual. And since the first thing Vadrien did when he found Sindra and Antoni was rush into action…

Colin turns and claps his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “It’s been nice knowing you, Captain.”

Wesley’s villainous grin looks even more foreboding than usual, especially since he’s turned off every light for today’s session, save for the chandelier and the wall torches. He claimed he wanted to set the mood, and so far, the mood is bad.

“Well, let’s see.” Wesley meets my eyes. “Do you think you can save him, Sindra?”

Sindra cannot move fast enough.

Vadrien shoves her back, sending her sailing into the nearest marble column. The impact dazes her, and as she struggles to catch her breath, the vampire turns his attention to the captain.

“No,” Sindra gasps, “don’t—”

It’s brutally quick work, though Antoni doesn’t go down without a fight. He runs for a shield and sword, reaching for any of the dozens stored along the armory’s walls, but Vadrien is unmatched for speed. Without his armor and weapons, the paladin is defenseless, and each vicious swipe of Vadrien’s claws tears deep wounds in Antoni’s chest, thigh, and shoulder. Within seconds, he falls to his knees before crumpling to the floor.

The captain’s lips move soundlessly—calling the name of his god, perhaps—and a dull golden glow lights at his chest. Though some of his wounds begin to heal, blood still pools under his body, and he soon falls unconscious.

Vadrien eyes the spreading crimson with fierce hunger—but at the last moment, he tears his gaze away and fixes it on where Sindra holds her sword with shaking hands.

“He means something to you,” Vadrien observes.

“Yes.” She can’t remember when the shift happened, when she started to care for these people, but she can’t deny it now.

Vadrien rips a spear from the wall and holds it poised at Antoni’s throat. Sindra freezes with Brightmorn outstretched. The prince tsks at her again, and that condescending click of his tongue against his teeth makes her want to cut it out of his mouth.

“Drop your weapon, Sindra,” he commands, “and come here.”

Internally, she seethes. Antoni would want me to keep fighting. He would want me to risk it all—even his life—if I thought I had a chance of killing this monster.

But even if she could manage the feat, just the thought of having to break the news to Vera sends her sword clattering to the floor. Like a puppet on strings, she stumbles toward Vadrien.

“Good,” he murmurs.

She keeps her gaze trained on Antoni, counting each shallow rise and fall of his chest. Vadrien makes a disgusted noise and jerks her chin up with his free hand until her eyes meet his. “Do you remember what I told you during our dance?”

“You had something to show me.”

“And you, clever girl, have nearly found it already.”

Vadrien presses his palm to the empty pedestal where the false crown sat. The marble glows a dull red before it seems to shimmer. As the illusion magic falls away, a compartment at the pedestal’s top folds out to reveal a second crown—but not the one they’re seeking.

No, the silver of this crown looks cold and sharp, and darkness swirls in its central ruby. Etched on the interior of the crown is text identical to the runes inked into Vadrien’s skull. Though many of the words still elude her, one leaps out: pact. “More infernal runes,” she mutters.

“Very good.” Vadrien reaches up to touch the side of her horn; Sindra flinches back. “Tell me, Sindra, what is your story? Did one of your parents lie with a devil?”

At first, she doesn’t answer—she doesn’t owe him her history. But then, casually, Vadrien presses the point of the spear against Antoni’s neck. It’s enough to draw a thin rivulet of blood.

Sindra hisses. “No,” she spits. “They worshipped devils. The magic they indulged in changed them irrevocably.” And me, she thinks.