The Greyfriar (Vampire Empire, Book 1) by Clay & Susan Griffith;Clay Griffith;Susan Griffith (27 page)

Adele felt like a coward, but she ran anyway, racing into the street,
where drunken vampires watched her pass. Some pointed and laughed at
the spectacle of someone's meal running away. She quickly turned off the
crowded thoroughfare and slipped into a canyonlike alley. It was empty,
but in the narrow slot of pale light overhead figures glided past.

If her Intended was coming for her, where would he go? Selkirk
knew she was in the Tower. Should she go there and wait for rescue?

Adele felt the crumpled map in her hand. Canterbury. Would
Greyfriar meet her there? Was he part of the rescue attempt? Was her
Intended waiting there? She had no idea if the ship that had been seen
was really his. One thing was clear: London was teeming with vampires.
The only solid chance she had was the X on the map. Greyfriar. He was
the answer.

Adele moved silently down the narrow lane. The enemy could
emerge from any of the doors lining her path. One of the doorways was
open, and she crept to the side to see or hear if there was activity within.
She heard nothing, so she slipped past, but a glint of light inside caught
Adele's attention. She was amazed to see piles of metal inside the room.
Weapons! Perhaps she could find another weapon to add to her dagger.
Something longer and deadlier.

Adele rummaged as quickly and as quietly as she could in the steel
debris. Finally it was mere providence that made her stumble. A glance
toward her foot and she saw a weapon of distinction. It was the blade of
a halberd with the handle snapped, so its length was no more than four
feet. It was a weapon designed for crushing blows and powerful thrusts.
Even without the long wooden haft behind it, the halberd had an edge
that would slice through the flesh of vampires.

Adele looked out into the lane and her courage trembled, but she
had no choice. She tightened her grip on the halberd and stepped out
into the street, where she was greeted by fog and shadows, which
worked in her favor. Adele racked her memory and decided the river was
to her left. She set off, hoping that her instinct was correct; there might
be no time for a second chance. Soon the sound of lapping water indicated to her that she had made the right choice.

The entrance to a massive bridge came into sight, and her heart
sank. Vampires crowded nearby. She prayed that she could find a second
bridge farther on. Stumbling across rocks and brambles on the shoreline,
Adele found a small path along the river that she followed with legs
numb and aching, her eyes darting toward every shadow.

The morning fog was beginning to thin. Through the grey mist
above, Adele saw blotches of red. Her heart leapt with thoughts of her
own White Guard. Then she realized it was Flay's Pale. They were
searching for her, and they were very close.

She darted into the underbrush, where sharp thorns easily tore
through her garments. Abruptly she ran headlong into a brick wall, long
forgotten and hidden from view by vines. Reeling back, the young
woman looked up to see a small circular building. Surely no one lived in
there. It was far too tiny. It must merely cover something from the
weather, but it would serve to hide her. With one eye cocked to the sky
for signs of approaching Pale, she searched halfway around the building
before she found a door. Her shoulder shoved hard, but it resisted. Desperation drove her, and the wooden door eased inward. Debris built up
inside scraped back as she wrenched the door back enough to slip inside,
where she put her back to the wall and waited. Her frantic breathing
sounded loud, so she tried to quell it, but it only increased the ache in her chest. Nothing sprang at her from the darkness and she heard no
sounds, so she took the chance and closed the door. Immediately her
small sanctuary plunged into complete darkness. It was so ebony black
inside that there wasn't even enough light to form the dimmest of
shadows. And silence infused the room like a tomb.

Like a tomb.

Adele dropped her hands to her sides and fumbled along the floor,
reaching out to touch anything that would give her a clue where she was.
Stiff fingers touched things barely recognizable: metal scraps; silky, moldcovered material; and more. She had no idea what they were.

She struggled to her feet carefully, keeping a hand on the wall. The
small structure wasn't very wide, and she decided to traverse it keeping
close to the wall. With one hand out for protection and the other bracing
her against the wall, she followed the curve of the structure. Shuffling
forward slowly, she thought she'd be prepared for anything.

She wasn't.

Soft wood gave way beneath her, and she fell farther into darkness.

RINCEss ADELE WAS gone, Flay thought.

The miserable little wretch was somewhere in London. Most likely she
was dead, enjoyed by some drunken rube unaware that he was drinking
Prince Cesare's possession and killing Flay with the same act. The cooling
body of the bothersome girl probably lay twisted under a tree or jammed
in a gutter crowded with corpses where she would never be found.

It was a fate richly deserved, Flay thought as she clung to the dome
of St. Paul's, staring into the misty grey morning. The muffled sound of
the diminishing bacchanalia reverberated below her. Several members of
her Pale perched near her. At some point, she would have to alert Cesare
to the princess's disappearance. And it would mean her death. Too bad.
Flay would have liked to have seen Gareth's face when he learned that
his precious trophy was gone. The war chief considered the possibility
of assassinating Cesare and throwing herself on Gareth's mercy. If the
elder prince were handed the fait accompli of his brother's death, he
would have to take control of the clan.

Or she could kill Cesare and flee Britain. Her reputation was vast
and celebrated. But no clan would accept a traitor with hands dark from
her master's blood.

Flay caught her breath and tried to think. She was feeling the effects
of the warm weather combined with exertion and hunger. She had not
fed for two days thanks to Cesare's constant demands on her time.

There was no proof the princess was dead. Perhaps she had escaped
with the help of Greyfriar. Flay had broken the fight with the Greyfriar
to chase the girl, but had ended up losing both of them. If any human
could secure the captive's freedom it would be that hateful swordsman.

Perhaps Cesare would not blame Flay for such an unexpected complication. Greyfriar was well known across Europe for doing the unexpected and unpredictable. Flay had never encountered a human who
fought so well, and she had fought and killed thousands of them over
her lifetime. He was different. Therefore he had to die.

Flay had to act fast. She would leash her finest hunters and track the
princess. She would find the prisoner before the end of the day. And perhaps she would get Greyfriar in the bargain. She smiled at the thought.

One of the Pale whispered and pointed eastward. Through the
humid mist Flay glimpsed a small warship as it slipped from a low
cloudbank. She had run out of time.

Flay snapped an order to gather the packs and assemble at the Tower.
Then she launched herself into the air, angling toward the river, as the
ghostly ship drew back into the clouds. She felt a tremor of delightful
anticipation. Senator Clark was actually coming into the heart of vampire London to retrieve his mate. It was a grand gesture that Flay could
applaud or deride equally, and it was completely futile, even if the
princess had been waiting in the Tower for him to rescue.

Now Flay had the opportunity to present Cesare with the head of
Clark, and hopefully return the princess to captivity and perhaps finish
the Greyfriar too. The hearts of the alliance and the resistance broken in
one night.

It was turning into quite a clan gathering after all.

Adele couldn't survive alone. He had failed her.

Greyfriar crouched under a bridge strut listening to the river and the cry of birds growing louder with the rising sun. His besotted brethren
were dragging themselves back to their dark holes for a day of sleep after
a night of gorging.

The drunken mob that Flay set on him had been troublesome to
escape. Greyfriar had spent the next few hours of thinning darkness frantically trying to track Adele through the bloodbath, relying on his vampiric skills again, and those skills were very rusty. He did take in tantalizing whiffs of her, sending him scampering one fruitless direction then
another.

Greyfriar had seen Flay tracking the princess too. The war chief had
been a brief shadow, and he had no chance to strike. He was relieved at
least that Flay didn't have Adele. But that didn't mean the poor frightened girl had not been slaughtered by passing revelers. The vision of
Adele dying, calling his name in vain, nailed him in the heart.

She couldn't survive alone. He had failed her.

Nothing was going according to plan. He had hoped to come to
Adele in her prison quarters as Greyfriar and spirit her away from
London. But as he had shadowed Flay and Adele from the palace across
London, he saw that the war chief had become enraged and was ready to
kill the princess. Intervention was his only option.

He pulled the cloth wrap away from his face and scented the air,
taking in the wet clotted smell of the river, the rusting iron of the
bridge, and the ever-present aftertaste of blood in the wind. None of it
was Adele's blood. Her scent was so familiar he could almost taste it.

Greyfriar growled and leapt to his feet. Once again, the cloth covered his fanged mouth and his human weapons felt heavy on his hips.
He made a show of touching and adjusting them as no vampire ever
would, comforted by their shape and weight.

He would work his way east, toward Canterbury. Perhaps he would
catch Adele's scent and find her safe. That was all he wished. To find her
safe and keep her safe.

She could not survive alone. He must not fail her. Clouds drifted across the deck of Ranger, winding through the shrouds
and ratlines, softly caressing the men and brass. In the grey silence,
masts creaked like trees snapping, gas vented with a roar, and the crew
shuffled over the wooden planks as if they wore iron boots. Senator Clark
stood at the rail clutching a drop line in his gloved hand, cringing at
every noise and glaring at every movement.