Blood Enchanted (Blood Enchanted, Book 1): A Vampire Hunter Paranormal Romance Series Read Online Free
Author: Nicola Claire
cotton on to the fact that the City Of Sails housed their government too. How would that go?
Not good.
Humans can be as brutal as a ghoul, as blood-thirsty as a vampire, and as cunning as the Fey. I was sure my father was preparing for that day. Luc would know for certain, he had our father's ear. Me? I just avoided politics as much as possible. It didn't pay well and I had money to earn.
I cut through a derelict building near Quay Street, still too close the the VC than I would have liked, but not too many vampires tended to go near the wharves. They'd become off limits to all but rogues and arena fighters. No official - as far as official goes in this profession - fights were held here, but the hardest and most untrustworthy of my peers could be found sharpening their skills in amongst the rubble and debris of the neglected wharves and warehouses.
Water dripped constantly from a burst main, smoke filled the air from drums of fires. The constant cough of a homeless person filtered through the shattered window on a single standing brick wall. Rubbish blew carelessly from one resting place to the next. My boots kicked up crumbled rocks and bits of mortar as I walked with purpose, dust coating my leathers and dulling the shine on my shoes. Just how I liked 'em.
I ducked under a leaning long-dead light pole, and slipped between two well placed sheets of plasterboard, coming out into an open space. Stars doggedly twinkled overhead, dimming as the sky turned from deep indigo to a brightening violet and blue. The sun would be up soon and vampires would retreat to their lairs leaving the world a slightly safer place.
Or so the humans thought.
I stilled, just this side of the large divide, letting my eyes search the shadows for movement. My ears strained, my hearing better than most, but unable to pick up any danger. I could have skirted the rubbish strewn and pock marked concrete, used the darker edges as cover. But to do so would be a signal of weakness. If you came here, you could not show fear.
I straightened my shoulders and walked out into open space. I made it half a dozen paces, approximately a third of the way across, when I heard it. I heard it before I saw it. My sword was in my hand before it reached my side. I didn't turn to face the danger, I swung my blade up beside my head, severing the arrow in two. The sound of the broken shaft hitting the concrete echoed in the still pre-dawn air. My eyes darted down to the offending article, not recognising the markings along its sides.
I spun slowly, sword raised, head cocked to the side, listening.
A second arrow from my left. Either a very fast opponent or two from differing places around the courtyard. My sword swung from reflex, my hair flying as I put my entire body into the manoeuvre. They wanted a show, they'd get one. But they'd see what I wanted them to see.
The two parts of the arrow hit the ground, only to be followed by a third and fourth in quick succession from two further locations. Four opponents?
My movements were unhurried and sure, a dance of weaponry taught to me by the best. To wield a Svante Sword you needed to make it an extension of your body; be one with the sword , my mother had teased. She took training seriously, she just couldn't be bothered curbing her sense of humour.
I was eight years old when I picked her sword up, marvelling at the colourful dancing dragon hilt, the thirty odd inches of honed metal, tapering from two inches at the guard to an extremely sharp point. She watched on silently as I fought an imaginary foe in our lounge room, the blade tip hanging low, my arms aching holding the weight aloft.
I stabbed the sofa. The stuffing spewed out of the armrest and I dropped the sword. My punishment was to tell my father what had happened when he came home, and then start my lessons with the sword the very next day. I loved the lessons. I hated coming clean to Papa.
The third and fourth arrows met their fate. I wasn't even breathing
Not good.
Humans can be as brutal as a ghoul, as blood-thirsty as a vampire, and as cunning as the Fey. I was sure my father was preparing for that day. Luc would know for certain, he had our father's ear. Me? I just avoided politics as much as possible. It didn't pay well and I had money to earn.
I cut through a derelict building near Quay Street, still too close the the VC than I would have liked, but not too many vampires tended to go near the wharves. They'd become off limits to all but rogues and arena fighters. No official - as far as official goes in this profession - fights were held here, but the hardest and most untrustworthy of my peers could be found sharpening their skills in amongst the rubble and debris of the neglected wharves and warehouses.
Water dripped constantly from a burst main, smoke filled the air from drums of fires. The constant cough of a homeless person filtered through the shattered window on a single standing brick wall. Rubbish blew carelessly from one resting place to the next. My boots kicked up crumbled rocks and bits of mortar as I walked with purpose, dust coating my leathers and dulling the shine on my shoes. Just how I liked 'em.
I ducked under a leaning long-dead light pole, and slipped between two well placed sheets of plasterboard, coming out into an open space. Stars doggedly twinkled overhead, dimming as the sky turned from deep indigo to a brightening violet and blue. The sun would be up soon and vampires would retreat to their lairs leaving the world a slightly safer place.
Or so the humans thought.
I stilled, just this side of the large divide, letting my eyes search the shadows for movement. My ears strained, my hearing better than most, but unable to pick up any danger. I could have skirted the rubbish strewn and pock marked concrete, used the darker edges as cover. But to do so would be a signal of weakness. If you came here, you could not show fear.
I straightened my shoulders and walked out into open space. I made it half a dozen paces, approximately a third of the way across, when I heard it. I heard it before I saw it. My sword was in my hand before it reached my side. I didn't turn to face the danger, I swung my blade up beside my head, severing the arrow in two. The sound of the broken shaft hitting the concrete echoed in the still pre-dawn air. My eyes darted down to the offending article, not recognising the markings along its sides.
I spun slowly, sword raised, head cocked to the side, listening.
A second arrow from my left. Either a very fast opponent or two from differing places around the courtyard. My sword swung from reflex, my hair flying as I put my entire body into the manoeuvre. They wanted a show, they'd get one. But they'd see what I wanted them to see.
The two parts of the arrow hit the ground, only to be followed by a third and fourth in quick succession from two further locations. Four opponents?
My movements were unhurried and sure, a dance of weaponry taught to me by the best. To wield a Svante Sword you needed to make it an extension of your body; be one with the sword , my mother had teased. She took training seriously, she just couldn't be bothered curbing her sense of humour.
I was eight years old when I picked her sword up, marvelling at the colourful dancing dragon hilt, the thirty odd inches of honed metal, tapering from two inches at the guard to an extremely sharp point. She watched on silently as I fought an imaginary foe in our lounge room, the blade tip hanging low, my arms aching holding the weight aloft.
I stabbed the sofa. The stuffing spewed out of the armrest and I dropped the sword. My punishment was to tell my father what had happened when he came home, and then start my lessons with the sword the very next day. I loved the lessons. I hated coming clean to Papa.
The third and fourth arrows met their fate. I wasn't even breathing
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