Spell of the Dark Castle (Chronicles of Zofia Trickenbod Book 2) by Lorelei Bell

Author:Lorelei Bell [Bell, Lorelei]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Creativia
Published: 2018-01-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

In an instant, out of the blue haze, there came a torn, throaty hiss, a flash of bright silvery light, fangs and more hissing. Zofia felt as though dropped from a height more than just the few inches she was presently levitating off the chair. Her head bounced against something solid—the wall? The table? She tried to focus on the shiny thing before her, she couldn't bring it in. Giving up, something across the room sharpened into view.

Myron's face. His eyes blazing. Red like hot coals. His mind wasn't touching hers any more. Everything was back to normal. She felt his heated glare, though, and yet it wasn't exactly on her. It was on someone beside, and behind her.

Myron was seated at the table across from her, she slowly realized, along side his mistress of the dark. He looked pissed, and his partner looked terribly disappointed. Myron was aiming daggers, not at Zofia, but her savior, Saint Germain.

Looking up at Saint Germain she found he held something in his hand. A round medallion hung from a silver chain. She realized that he'd used it successfully to chase Myron away, as well as the female vampire.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Saint Germain was asking her. He bent to her, examining her neck, just like a doctor might examine his patient.

“What?” she said, glinting up at him. His face was so close.

“Those bites,” he said. “I hadn't noticed them before. You have been bitten by a vampire in the past week, I'd say. I had no idea. You should have said something.” His voice low, rumbling in her ear.

Automatically, she put her hand to her neck. “Oh, uh, yeah. I, uh—” was all she managed. The story she had invented for this—if the subject ever came up—had fled her mind, momentarily, because she realized the amber and silver necklace was gone. Dragon nuts.

Saint Germain nodded congenially. “Never mind,” he said as though coming to his own conclusions. “Here.” He draped the silver chain around her neck. The heavy medallion had some strange runes written around it. She was familiar with the Runic alphabet, but not the language, or each Rune's meanings.

“Wear this always,” he said.

“What is it? Silver?” she wondered.

“It is made of the best, most purest silver produced anywhere,” he explained. His quelling gaze rose to take in Myron and his female consort. “It is quite obvious that Myron is very intent on sipping on you as his repast before the night is over. I'm afraid I must object.” He straightened. “Are you able to stand?” he asked, and held out his hand to her. She took it and unsteadily rose with his help. “I have a room at the top of the steps,” he went on, one arm going around her to steady her. “Can you make it ?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

“Good,” he said and before she knew it, he swept her around a table of rowdy drinkers, whisked her past the twirling Gypsy girl—noting that the music had been taken up by the Gypsy men—and then slipped her through a crimson partition.

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