Page 46 of Vampire's Choice

It was cloaking itself in more than one way. When she finally had enough sensory input to identify it, she realized why. He knew he would be recognized.

A vampire.

Not just any vampire. Trad vampires had an unmistakable smell, like how dogs and wolves smelled differently. She’d never met one, but her father had described them in detail to her in her teens, because of the threat they posed to young female vampires.

Unease became cold anger, and her predator instincts went into killing mode. Within seconds, he would be aware of her presence, if he wasn’t already. Her only advantage was if he thought his cloaking had kept him shielded. Even so, he was too close to his goal. Abandoning any pretense, she bolted toward Clara’s tent.

It was a good decision.

Because the show had started, Clara was in the tent alone. When Ruth entered the front, a blade flashed as the vampire sliced an opening in the back and shoved through.

The fortune teller surged up from her table, trying to put it between her and the attacker.

The vampire threw a bolas at her. It whipped through the air, wrapping around her calves. When the balls hit her ankle bones, Clara cried out. As she fell, she grabbed at the table, clutching the blue cloth draped over it. A heavy crystal ball swirling with lights came tumbling off of the surface.

The move wasn’t uncalculated. When she flipped over, despite the bolas’s restraint, Clara had the crystal ball in her hands. She flung it at her unwelcome visitor.

Not enough force or speed behind it to do real damage, but he had to deflect it, which provided Ruth a vital distraction.

She noted a human-sized burlap sack at his belt, ready to conceal his human prisoner. Not happening.

Ruth launched herself, hitting the Trad with enough force to shove them back out the slit in the tent. When hard blue eyes turned her way, the Trad evaluated her age and strength in a heartbeat. He wasn’t old, but he knew she was outmatched.

She didn’t mind being underestimated. She dodged the strike of his fist at her throat, leaping back from the knife he drew. While the one she clutched was razor sharp steel, his was wooden. His thin-lipped smile showed dirty teeth and big fangs.

“Fledgling,” he said, whipping the knife at her. She deflected it enough that it only grazed her shoulder, and spun under his guard to hit him mid body again. It rolled them farther from the tent. She stabbed him twice with her knife before he hit a pressure point and the weapon fell from nerveless fingers.

Fuck, she needed backup. If the Trad wasn’t alone, a cohort could take Clara while Ruth was fighting him. She hadn’t detected one, but with that cloaking spell, she couldn’t rule it out.

The Trad lunged at her. Ruth blocked his next kick, turning into it and pushing him off balance. It was a sound tactic, but he regained his feet, clamped his hand on her forearm and thrust it at an awkward angle back toward her. His knife was rushing toward her chest. Ruth twisted hard to break his hold. Her bone snapped, but it saved her life, the wooden knife shoving into the right side of her chest, instead of into her heart.

She’d screamed when the bone gave, but rage was mixed with the pain. Despite having only one functional arm, she struck at the Trad with the other. She had no problem fighting in ways other vampires considered beneath their dignity. She stabbed a finger into his eye, rupturing it, and hooked a thumb into his mouth, trying to wrench his jaw loose from its hinge.

Now he was the one shrieking. He tried to pull back, get the knife loose and stab her again. She wouldn’t be able to stop him, so she focused on breaking his jaw, wrapping her legs over his thighs, refusing to let him get away from her. The problem was him realizing the advantage that tactic gave him. He could crush her ribcage inside the band of his arms.

“Let go.”

The snarled command didn’t come from him. It penetrated her fury-filled mind, and she released her opponent, rolling away. The Trad was pulled off of her, a sweep of black and white wings obscuring her pain-blurred vision as Merc tossed him across the ground.

The Trad had taken the knife with him, the blade ripping more flesh, but leaving her heart intact. Before he stopped rolling, Merc was on him again. The Trad spat a curse, but then went curiously inert, holding the knife out to his side. He shot a contemptuous look at Ruth. Then smirked.

The Trad’s arm shot up, and he jammed the wooden knife into his own chest. Merc hadn’t anticipated a self-inflicted attack. Pale green smoke wafted from the Trad’s open mouth, like fogged breath on a cold day.

“Merc, move back,” she shouted. “Everyone keep away.”

That was for the other security personnel who’d arrived, It relieved Ruth of the worry about backup eyes on Clara, but not of her fear for Merc.

She struggled up, lunged across the ground, stumbling, but when she reached Merc, grasping his arm, trying to pull him back, it was too late.

Confusion gripped Merc’s features. Then the whites of his eyes went full silver and he stiffened. His fangs shot forth, large, gleaming and deadly, and his attention locked upon her. Wild, hungry. Homicidal. She’d fallen onto her knees while gripping his arm, her other hand pressed to the wound in her chest.

Though she was far too close, no hope of outrunning him, she sat back on her ass, tried to stay non-threatening and move back from him slowly. His lip curled, a smirk way too close to the Trad’s. He knew he had her and was just letting her think she could get away.

Nothing but violent, hungry predator was in his gaze. No empathy or awareness of her beyond something to tear apart and consume. Nothing she did or said would penetrate. But while he was tracking her futile retreat, he wasn’t focused on anything else.

A familiar tremor went through the ground, a small earthquake. Her head whipped toward Marcellus. Since she knew where his attention would immediately go, she screamed to pull it toward her.

Just as the incubus charged for her.