Free Hunting Karoly by Marie Treanor

his broad shoulders and his kilt, forming a puddle at his feet. Why had I never noticed his feet before? He wore sneakers.
    For another instant, we both stood quite still, staring at each other. The only sound, outside the furious drumming of my heart, was the lighter pattering of rain on the balcony roof. For once, he looked serious. There was no mockery in the beautiful, dissolute face, no laughter in those amazing green and gold eyes. Then, slowly, the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
    He said softly, “You came,” and reached for me, trapping my loosely hanging arms between us. I shook one sleeve, feeling the stick drop downward into my palm.
    And yet his words, his nearness, made me think of last night’s dream. Maybe they were meant to. You came .
    I said sardonically, “Oh yes, I came. And now I’ve come to kill you.”
    Mostly, I didn’t expect him to let me. Mostly, I expected to be flung off the balcony. A flashing, sickening vision of the road I had just glimpsed from the balcony flitted through my mind and was ruthlessly suppressed. Or to be torn apart by his sharp, sexy teeth while he drank my blood dry. Or even to be stabbed with my own stake. But I had to try.
    As I spoke the words, I yanked my right arm upward, pulled back my shoulder and struck him full in the chest with my sharpened stick. I put all my strength behind it and the force of the blow jarred me from the wrist to the shoulder. I didn’t feel the crunch of bone or tearing flesh, I didn’t know if I was supposed to, since I had never stabbed anybody before. And now that I did, it had to be him.
    He didn’t reel back. He didn’t move at all for several seconds. My eyes were fixed on his face, desperately waiting for the reaction, for his anger or pain before he fell into a pile of dust or whatever it is vampires are supposed to do when you kill them. He did nothing. Only the expression in his light eyes changed to something I couldn’t quite read at first. Then, struggling with a thousand contradictory emotions of my own, I realized it was compassion. I felt my eyes widen with incomprehension.
    He said, “You’re meant to use the sharp end.”
    My eyes closed fast. Involuntarily, my head fell back against his arm. “Oh Jesus,” I whispered. I let the useless stick fall to the ground, well aware I had wasted my only chance.
    The vampire smiled. “Just kidding,” he said and my eyes flew open again. Now, over the compassion, he was definitely laughing at me. Looking for the truth, my eyes fell to his chest—and widened once more with a horror I couldn’t prevent. Dark blood oozed over his shirt, staining it crimson even in the poor half light of the storm.
    “I did it,” I whispered, slowly lifting my gaze back to his. “I really did it?”
    “You really stabbed me, but I am not so easy to kill.”
    “You won’t die?” Despite everything, relief flooded my voice, drowning the desolation and the pity for him and for me. “But you feel pain, I’ve hurt you!” Helplessly, my fingers hovered over the wound—which, incredibly, seemed to be closing already—afraid to touch him, not knowing what to do. Stupidly, it never entered my head to flee. Of course, his arms were still around me, so any fleeing would have required his cooperation. My whole body heated inside my sodden clothes and the ache shooting downward from my abdomen had very little to do with fear or remorse.
    He said, “My body heals.” He was right. Through the ragged tear in his shirt, the wound looked no more than a pinprick. The blood had disappeared, the bruising almost all gone.
    He lifted one hand from my back to touch my cheek, astoundingly gently. “And now you’ve got that over with…”
    But my attention was caught by his hand. A long, ugly scar ran up its back, a scar that had certainly not been there in the church undercroft yesterday.
    “Your hand!” I exclaimed, catching at it. He let me take it in mine, let me look, though he