“But it didn’t work,” I said firmly, meeting her gaze. “Neither one of us is going to believe even one more lie from him.”
“Absolutely not,” she nearly shouted, sounding good and pissed.
It was good that she was mad, because I suspected that shortly, we were going to need all the adrenaline we could muster. There was nothing else to barricade the door with except vases, and Nerilla needed those to throw.
“And by the way, I have an excuse,” I told her, brushing her hair aside, off her forehead, putting my hand on her cheek. “How did you all miss that he was a complete fuckin’ psychopath for all this time?”
“I know!” she yelled, almost snarling. “How in the name of God did I not notice that he was clinically insane?”
“What about the king?” I groused at her. “This does not speak well of his ability to pick qualified personnel.” She laughed then, right before we heard the first hit to the door. “Shit,” I rasped, bolting over to the doors that led out onto the balcony.
“You’re wasting your time,” she informed me.
But I went anyway, opened the doors and walked to the railing and looked over. And, as Nerilla had just told me, it was a waste, because all there was, very far below, was the roiling Mediterranean Sea.
“Fuck,” I yelled, hearing the pounding on the door become constant and seeing the couch move with each new impact. Darting back to her side, I stepped in close. “Whatever happens, you stay with me.”
“Yes,” she promised, vase in hand, trembling a bit, trying to breathe as the doors were hit again and again.
“We stay together,” I told her. “We either go out the door or out the window—it’s you and me.”
“You and me,” she repeated, her voice tiny, chin wobbling.
It was like an earthquake hit the room, and they were on us so quickly.
The doors were thrown open, the couch flung sideways, and four men erupted into the space, thankfully not carrying guns like Varic’s guards, but the swords weren’t ancient like what I had either; they were newer, beautiful and deadly, each man brandishing what resembled a katana. It made sense that they would be carrying those and not guns to protect whoever the man was who’d been in the room with us. They were protecting him from other vampyrs, not humans. And that was my problem.
If four human men had come through the door, even if they were better trained than I was, with my own close-quarter skills honed from fourteen years in the army, the playing field would have been more level. And though four to one were not great odds, since I was not a CIA spook who could kill people with a credit card or a pen, I would at least have been able to put up a bit of a fight. In my present situation, with Nerilla to protect, no window or door to jump out of to safety—only certain death—I was not at all confident of my chances of survival.
Nerilla was good with her aim, and a vase hit the first man, but the second charged by her, leaped, and came down toward me. My spatha, which I suddenly remembered the name of, was wider but shorter, and had he been just a bit better trained, he would have had me. As it was, I still had the dagger, so when we locked blades, I plunged it into the side of his neck, yanked forward, and pulled it out, kicking him away as a geyser of blood erupted from the wound.
Turning, I was nearly run through, but my attacker hadn’t counted on Nerilla smashing him in the face with what I was certain was a blue-and-white Ming vase and was probably worth more money than I had in the world. The tip of his blade pierced my skin but didn’t go in far before his head was snapped back with the force of her blow, and I grabbed his wrist. Dropping the spatha, I drove the pugio into his chest and then used both hands to relieve him of the katana, spun and caught him in the right side. Nerilla, having retrieved the spatha, skewered his abdomen, and I pulled the lighter, sharper blade free. Her momentum took her down on top of him, and when she rolled free, he was choking on his own blood.
I had only enough time to pivot, wanting to see where the other two men were, when I was struck hard from behind and smashed to the marble floor, pinned there for only seconds before a blade was driven through my right shoulder blade.
My cry was loud, and then I screamed again when he yanked the blade free, rolled me to my back, and changed his angle, aiming for my heart, and was about to bring the blade down when the spatha cut into the right side of his neck.
Nerilla wasn’t strong enough to take his head off, her motion hacking, not stabbing, but he froze in a rictus of pain which allowed me to knock him off of me, scramble to my feet, and complete the death stroke she’d begun, the katana making a gaping slice from neck to heart.
It took me a second to turn, if that. Only a fraction of time, but it was enough.
I saw the sword, the flash of the metal, and the blow came in a blur of speed, toward my chest. I tried to lift my right arm to block it, but I wasn’t fast enough. Muscles and tendons in my shoulder had been severed, there was no lifting anything. I could barely hold on to the hilt.
But I didn’t have to because Nerilla was there.
Her motion, her turn, was graceful, the pirouette of a dancer, and allowed her to intercept his attack, the blow cleaving her nearly in two. His triumphant roar died on his lips as he registered the surprise of striking her instead of me, even as his own momentum brought him forward onto the sword Nerilla still held. The spatha was a dull meat cleaver compared to the katana he’d used, but his own power worked against him as flesh and iron met, the weapon buried deep in his chest by her locked hold and the leverage she had with me, immovable, at her back. The wound matched the savage brutality of the spatha, and immediately, as he reeled back, I heard his sharp staccato breaths before he kicked Nerilla in the stomach, slamming her into me and hurling us both to the floor with his last remaining strength.
The back of my head struck the marble so hard that I was certain he’d crushed my skull. I fought not to lose consciousness, held on, but I was dazed and winded, and my vision washed white for a moment as the room spun wildly.
My chest was heavy, I couldn’t draw breath, but I had to save Nerilla, it was all that mattered, only stemming the flow of blood and somehow holding her together until she could begin to heal.
Scrambling to sit up, I gently moved her off me with my one good hand. Fighting the renewed spinning, stomach clenching, I managed to get to my knees and drag her up against me, cradling her in my left arm.
“Nerilla,” I rasped, terrified, realizing suddenly that yes, we were both bloodied, but she was washed in crimson. “You have to hold on,” I pleaded, pressing my left hand to her chest, trying to staunch the blood that was leaking out of her.
She moaned and turned her head, looking up at me, tears escaping, rolling down the sides of her face and into her ears.
Moving her off me, laying her down flat, I ripped at my dress shirt, shredding it since I had only one hand, and pressed it to her chest, only to watch it immediately turn red at the edges before it absorbed more and more blood.
“Nerilla,” I husked, staring down into her eyes.
“I saved you,” she said, the tears falling steadily. “Did you see? I finally saved you.”
I nodded, my voice clogged with tears, my heart in my throat.
“And you forgave me because you love me, don’t you?”