Page 3 of Prince with a Chance of Darkness (Grimm Cove #7)

Chapter Three

Vlad

She has ceased to breathe , Katarina shouted down their mental pathway, her words driving Vlad onward.

In mist form, he did not see in the traditional way, nor hear as a mortal would, but rather, he sensed everything. Far more than any human ever could, even using all their senses. And at this moment, he felt fear. Absolute terror beat at his essence like a drum, warning of pending death. Of agony, the likes of which he would not survive.

It made no sense. He was not in danger. Was he?

Had Dragos gained his freedom?

No.

Vlad would have sensed as much.

Even if Dragos had managed to do the unthinkable and break free of his mystical cell, Vlad would not feel terror. He'd be enraged. Not fearful.

Fear, not for us, his demon pushed through the nothingness at him. For her.

Harker's visions of the twins assailed Vlad, nearly making him lose his mist form. He was not one who lost control of his powers. He was not a fledgling. He was Vlad Dracula, known the world over as the greatest vampire ever to be. He was not newly sired. A pup on his master's lead. He did not lose control.

Ever.

His essence burned with exertion; his reserves depleted from the relentless journey from Essex to the cursed forest of Hoia-Baciu. The rational part of him, the calculating strategist who had survived centuries, whispered that he should have stopped, should have fed, should have regained his strength before attempting such a feat.

Vlad ignored the rational part, pressing forward, his mist coiling through the trees, drawn to the beacon of distress. He was close. So close. The sensation sharpened, narrowing down to a single, overwhelming source.

He had spent centuries detached, indifferent, never allowing himself to form bonds, especially not with women. They were fleeting, their presence enjoyable, their company pleasurable, but they meant nothing.

Yet now, he was pushing beyond his limits for one he had never met.

Broken bits from Harker’s visions came flooding back to Vlad. He faltered once more as the memory of seeing the young woman with the ponytail facing off against a highly skilled slayer, one who had been on Vlad's radar to a point for years, filled his essence, his very being.

Helen Murray.

She had splintered from the Murray family line of slayers nearly a decade ago. No surprise, really. From what Vlad had been told, she'd been something of a wildcard. A loose cannon that Alvin Murray, the previous head of the family line, could not control or contain. She was walking death, hung up on old ways and traditions.

She hated demons of any kind. Hated seeing hunters and supernaturals work side by side. Why had the visions shown her in the cave defending Dragos. She'd not been trying to kill the demon. No. She had been driving a dagger into Ponytail Girl's chest.

It was a killing blow.

One Vlad could almost feel, even though it had not been directed at him. It was an injury that humans did not come back from. Without assistance of the supernatural variety, Ponytail Girl would succumb to her injuries and be no more.

Katarina had been keeping an open line of communication with Vlad mentally since the start of his journey. When Vlad had connected with her and her sisters mentally, frantically requesting their assistance, Katarina had remained calm and level-headed. She had radiated peaceful energy in a reassuring manner. She had kept the mental connection to him in place even when he had begun to show signs of fatigue from his current mode of transportation. Even when it became clear that he was burning through too much of his energy reserves.

Vlad had needed to shut Harker's connection to the group, not to keep him out of the loop, but to be able to hear and concentrate. To keep getting clear updates from Katarina and her sisters. Even from the betrayer—Lucian.

Harker had lost control of himself. Vlad had sensed it through their bond. And then his end had gone dark. Not the darkness of death. No, that would have cut the connection, leaving a hole in its wake. This was different. If Vlad was right, Harker had been rendered unconscious.

For the best, really.

An out-of-control Harker would be much like an out-of-control Lucian. Something no one wanted to see occur.

Suddenly, Vlad sensed them all: The Weird Sisters, the betrayer, a newly formed wolf and another—one without breath, without a pulse, and who had lost far too much blood. The blood called to him, but not to his demon in the traditional sense. The demon didn’t want to feast. It did not matter that their energy reserves were totally depleted. That the fumes they were running on were nearly extinguished.

The world contracted around him, his mist form wavering as something deep within him rebelled against what he was sensing. Blood. Too much of it. And only five hearts beating close to him—on this side of the mystical cave’s boundaries. Lucian and the white wolf were two. The Weird Sisters, who he knew the sound of like he knew the back of his hand, were three. There was no other. There should be six.

We are too late! his demon shouted, knocking him off course with its intensity.

His mist form wavered, leaving him transforming into bats as he had done countless times before, but something was wrong. His control faltered, and for the first time in centuries, the transition between states of being was not as seamless as it should have been. The change was violent, jarring.

Each bat seemed to tear away from him, his consciousness fragmenting. They scattered too far, too wide, his power insufficient to hold them in formation. His attempt to reform into a man was worse. The bats converged unevenly; his usual fluid manifestation replaced by something altogether cruder.

He actually hit a tree.

It had been nearly six hundred years since he’d blundered about with his powers, new to them, trying them on for size. This was worse than that even. When his feet finally met the earth, his knees threatened to buckle beneath him. Of course there were witnesses to his rather ungraceful landing.

The Weird Sisters exchanged glances—they'd never seen him falter before.

Vlad paid them little mind. Now was not the time to save face. Now was the time to save the young woman who had set him on this frantic path. His entire being was focused on that terrible void where her life force should be.

Katarina had a bloody tear on her cheek, something Vlad would not have believed had he not witnessed it. While the most level-headed of the three, she could be ruthless. She also had great control over her emotions.

Yet there she was on the forest floor as wind began to howl overhead and lightning flashed through the night sky. Dark power was laced through it all, reminding Vlad they were not alone. The witch of the forest was watching.

Katarina held Ponytail Girl in her arms, a sight that reminded Vlad greatly of when he’d last seen her weep. When he’d last seen her hold another with agony in her undead heart.

It had been when the sister they never spoke of had died. Katarina had held her body closer, weeping silently. Radmila, the redhead and most temperamental, had gone on a killing spree. And Doroteya "Teya", the short blonde, had gotten lost in her own little world of make-believe, naming one of her many porcelain dolls “sister” and never again speaking the lost one’s name.

To see this level of compassion from Katarina for a human girl should have been one more in a series of never-ending red flags.

She looked up at him. “I could not save her. My blood brought her back for mere minutes. Then she collapsed. Her sister,” said Katarina, her gaze flickering toward the white wolf. “She went into a blood rage. The Dark One tries to calm her now. She does not wish to be calmed.”

Radmila curled her lip in Lucian’s direction. “She should kill him. It will save you the time later, Master.”

Vlad didn’t chastise her for calling him master, despite having told the three of them to call him Vlad or even Dracula too many times to count. He did give her a cross look for daring to suggest harm befall the young woman.

Lucian growled at Radmila.

She hissed.

Vlad pointed at Lucian. “I shall deal with you later. For now, secure the white wolf. Harm her not.”

Teya sat near the dead body of a male hunter. A crossbow lay at his side. His shirt was torn open and his chest was covered with blood. The vampire’s white dress had blood splatters on it, as did her blonde curls. She was tracing lines through the blood on the man’s chest, repeating a pattern of sorts. When Vlad realized she was playing a game of tic-tac-toe, he shook his head, his focus returning to Katarina and Ponytail Girl.

Blood was smeared across Katarina’s mouth, chin, and wrist. The girl in her grasp was deathly still, her lips stained red, blood trickling down her cheek, pooling onto the forest floor.

He heard no heartbeat.

The world shrank around him, narrowing to a singular point— her .

Under the scent of blood and death lingered something else—of night jasmine and honeysuckle. Both scents he associated with the night as the flowers tended to bloom and be more fragrant overnight. He never realized how much he liked the scents until now and both seemed to be coming from the young woman in Katarina’s arms. She also smelled heavily of blood and death.

He was moving before he realized it, yanking the young woman from Katarina’s grasp, dropping to his knees in the damp earth. She was limp in his arms, her head lolling to the side, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. He pressed his ear to her chest, not that the act was required. His sensitive hearing could pick up heartbeats from miles away, and could smell the smallest of drops.

Like a shark.

“You attempted to heal her?” he asked, his gaze colliding with Katarina’s, already knowing she had. It had been at his behest. It didn’t matter. He needed to hear her say it. Needed verification.

Katarina nodded faintly as she stared down at the girl in his arms. “She was brave. She tried to make her sister leave her to die. Tried to sacrifice herself for the greater good—for her sister. For family.”

As Vlad looked harder at the young woman in Katarina’s arms, he began to draw parallels between what had happened to the fourth Weird Sister and what had happened here on this night. Reaching out, he touched Katarina’s shoulder lightly. “How much blood did you give her?”

“More than enough,” she said, her eyes flashing with red, something normally reserved for Radmila. “It should have healed her. It has not.”

“Katarina,” he said, his accent thickening. He spoke in the old tongue, knowing hers was not a demon that could be permitted to be set loose. “Cage your demon. Now is not the time to let it free.”

Unenthusiastically, she did.

Now that the threat of Katarina’s demon was handled, Vlad’s focus returned to Ponytail Girl. He didn’t doubt Katarina’s word. If she said she’d given the young woman more than enough blood to heal her, she had. Something was wrong. Why wasn’t it working? Katarina was powerful and old. Her blood held a great deal of healing abilities.

Give her our blood , his demon pushed, a frantic edge to its voice. Hurry.

His fangs extended, responding to the desperate need to save the girl in his arms. Vlad lifted his arm, undid his cuff link, and bit into his wrist savagely, unconcerned with the aftereffects. He would heal. He put his bleeding wrist to Ponytail Girl's mouth.

The white wolf growled and lunged at Vlad, her intent clear. She was going to protect her sister from the perceived threat—him.

Lucian headed her off, slamming into her with great care, considering how much bigger than her that he was. The two rolled, ending up next to Teya who was still deep in her one-person game of bloody tic-tac-toe.

Vlad waited, expecting to see Ponytail Girl’s wound begin to close over.

Nothing happened.