The Dark Arts of Blood Read Free Page A

could help it.
    Charlotte, by contrast, was inclined to befriend people before she fed. Even though she knew her desire for mutual affection was deceptive, she found the impulse hard to resist. Winning their trust, only to betray them.
    “We all find our own ways,” Stefan would say with a shrug. “We’re vampires. Accept it. If you agonise over every pang of conscience, you may as well put yourself to eternal sleep in the
Weisskalt
.”
    Charlotte could only imagine how desperate someone would have to be to seek that terrible frozen realm, the outermost shell of the Crystal Ring. The
Weisskalt
did not even guarantee true death: some vampires had come back after years of hibernation. Some claimed to remember every moment.
    Perhaps she would find Stefan again, as he’d suggested, and tell him what had happened.
Even if
, she thought,
he only finds the tale amusing, as he always does.
    Although her hunger was acute, her desire to sate it had vanished. Sometimes the prospect of a too-lavish feast could kill the appetite.
    Then a man stepped in front of her.
    She was startled. Normally she sensed humans before they appeared, but she hadn’t been paying attention. The stranger was walking up from the town, where there were hotels and bars along the water’s edge. He was drunk, judging by his unsteady gait and the insolent way he confronted her, forcing her to stop. He reeked of stale beer. Jacket undone, hat askew. His clothes were nondescript: a plain suit that gave no hint of whether he was a tourist or local, rich or poor.
    Not that his station in life meant anything. Alcohol could turn aristocrat or peasant alike into a brute. To a vampire, this meant nothing.
    Blood was blood.
    He addressed her in Swiss German, slurring his words as he propositioned her in the crudest of terms. As a human, she would have been terrified. Now, however, he had no idea what an extreme risk he was taking.
    But she had no desire to hurt him.
    She made her expression icy as she distanced herself and began to walk around the drunken pest. Unfortunately, he lacked the sense to let her go. He slipped and staggered on the cobbles, arms flailing for balance. Giggling, he circled in front of her again. Charlotte’s gaze became flint.
    “Let me pass,” she said in German.
    She side-stepped again, but this time he seized her arm. “No, come on, a beautiful girl all alone? Want to talk to you. Not good enough for you, Fräulein, is that it?”
    His grip was strong. He might be an ex-soldier, one who’d guarded Switzerland’s borders during the Great War: he had that tough, weather-worn look. His hair was cropped short, his face red and sweaty. Not much taller than her, he was heavy-set, with muscular arms, blood vessels throbbing in his thick neck.
    Charlotte preferred to avoid fights, unless pushed to the limit. However reckless or determined the man was, if he planned to overpower her he would be in for a shock.
    “Let go,” she said, her voice a sword-blade.
    The drunk responded by gripping both her upper arms. A slight tussle began. She was startled by his strength – as he was doubtless surprised to find her immoveable, like a tree.
    “Don’t be unfriendly, darling. Just a kiss. Look at those beautiful lips. You ever been kissed before? Bet you haven’t. Not like this. And I’ve something else for you, a real surprise…”
    Over his shoulder, Charlotte saw Stefan and Niklas, tiny and far away at the bottom of the lane. They were looking up at her, but Stefan would view this as a moment of entertainment, not a reason to rush to her aid.
    “Take your hands off me now or you will regret it,” she said softly.
    “Ooh.” The drunk laughed. “What can you do to stop me, skinny little flower?”
    “Let me go and run for your life, unless you wish to find out.”
    More laughter, witless yet malevolent. He jerked her towards him and made to kiss her. Charlotte brought up her arms in a swift movement that broke his grip. He tried again,