Page 62 of Vampire's Choice

“Marcellus wasn’t fighting with the Legion at the time, thanks to an injury. He’d been assigned temporary guard duty over a clairvoyant who was deemed important to the angelic realms.”

“Clara.”

“Yep. He brought Merc along with him, after they got Yvette on board with it, which took some convincing. Merc doesn’t go out of his way to be charming.”

At her arch look, Gideon made a face. “Yeah, Miss Smartass, I know I’m one to talk.”

“There are still plenty of vampires who want you dead.” She gave him a nudge. Before being bound to Daegan and Anwyn, Gideon had been the most successful human vampire hunter their world had ever encountered. If not for the binding with his two vampires, he would still be on the most wanted list. Or already executed.

“What can I say? I have a devoted anti-fan club.” Gideon shrugged, then sobered. “Even after all these years, jury’s still out on him, Ruth. Don’t get too attached.”

She understood. Even so, she thought about the child Merc, being dumped like trash, and anger surged within her. As well as gratitude toward Marcellus and the others Gideon had mentioned, who’d recognized such desolate circumstances had earned that “child” a second chance.

What were Merc’s feelings on all of it? And was he “rehabilitated,” or merely toeing the line to stay alive? The word smacked of turning him into something he wasn’t, but in her world, it meant other things, too. Teaching new and better survival skills, while healing an injury, whether to the soul or body.

Gideon quickened his steps. “They’re about to start.”

His eagerness was more than a desire to view the competition. He didn’t want his Master without backup. Which reinforced what he’d said about Merc.

Jury’s still out on him.

The match was taking place in the Big Top’s center ring. Daegan was a tall, lean vampire with dark eyes and close-cropped hair. He wore a tank shirt and gi pants, appropriate for a workout. As he moved in a series of muscle-rippling warmups, his katana was still sheathed.

Merc had chosen the same kind of blade. She didn’t know if it was his or if it had been borrowed from Daegan, but he looked exceptionally comfortable with it.

A few roustabouts and performers were scattered at safe distances to watch. With a spurt of happiness, Ruth saw Adan sitting on the low wall in front of audience seating. As she and Gideon joined him there, she sat down between them and gave her brother a fond nudge. “Didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

“It’s not too often I get to be in the same area for more than a few days, so I’m taking advantage of it. Thought I’d check in.” He did the obligatory tug of her braid and she responded in kind with a side punch. “Heard you held your own yesterday pretty damn well.”

“I did okay.”

I’m all right, big brother. This is what I’m here to do. And I kicked ass.

Adan draped an arm around her, a quick, hard squeeze. “I don’t doubt it.”

Merc had noted her arrival. His gaze touched hers, then it returned to Daegan. She squelched a shiver, hoping the distraction of the fight would keep Adan from noticing.

Nope. His blue eyes narrowed on Merc before they turned toward her again.

You know you don’t want to mess with him.

He’s all right. He pulled the Trad off of me yesterday. After I kicked his ass, she repeated.

Merc was stripped down to jeans and his bare feet. An outfit that differed from the other day only in that the jeans were faded blue, thinner and more worn. She approved, the denim creasing in all sorts of distracting ways.

As he limbered up with his own blade, she saw the mental stillness and controlled movements of a trained fighter, comparable to Daegan’s, though each man had his own style. She forgot to be self-conscious about staring. Fortunately, the rest of their audience was equally involved.

A warrior practices endlessly. When he drills down into the heart of the forms he learns, he finds their spiritual essence. The end intent is to protect, defend, and yes, to kill if necessary. But there is an art to fighting, just as there is to living and dying. All of it is part of creation.

When Daegan had told her that, he’d been showing her the beauty among the brutality. He’d given her a stick to use as a practice sword. They’d stood on a rocky crest and he’d put her through several simple forms while the moon shone on the gazelle herd grazing on the wide plain below them. “If you can’t stop the blade a hair’s breadth from your opponent’s throat,” he said, “then you haven’t trained enough.”

“So I’ll never be good enough,” she’d complained.

He rapped her on the head with his own stick. “None of us is ever good enough.”

Daegan was mirroring Merc now. Lights in the Big Top touched the blades, making them look like silvery water as the flashes advanced and receded.

They started to draw closer to one another.