He gouged the face of the knife wielder and sent him airborne screaming down the stairs. Then he yanked the axe free of his collarbone and stepped out, swinging the weapon into another determined man nearby. The point of a sword immediately protruded from Gareth's stomach. With an angry snarl, he lashed back with the axe, and the heavy blade caromed off a man's skull.
Instantly, he dropped the axe and began to climb, weaving up the stones as shells tore through newly leafed branches, clicked off bricks, and shattered windows. He heard screams from above and assumed Flay had found her quarry. When he reached the roof, he caught a brief glimpse of her slaughtering a man before pushing off and vaulting over the stairs toward the opposite rooftop.
He sailed across the space as rifle muzzles flashed, and he felt several tugs on his clothes and limbs. Then he was on the roof, in the center of four men with rifles. They tried awkwardly to spin and aim at him. He growled and slashed faces and throats, ripped weapons from hands, and smashed heads with a heavy rifle.
Soon he was the only one standing. He had been slow. So much time in the relative warmth of Equatoria, and infrequent feedings left him less than his best. He needed to sharpen himself before going to London.
Flay appeared over the edge of the roof, her face red and raven hair glistening wet. She crouched with claws out, her head pivoting in search of prey. Satisfied they were alone, she turned her attention to Gareth.
She laughed. “You didn't kill them all below, but I finished it for you.”
“I was distracted,” Gareth replied.
Flay took the rifle from his hand and tossed it aside. Then she gently removed a dagger from his ribs and pulled the sword out of his back. Her earlier looks of dismay were replaced by fierce admiration as she took in the carnage. “Please restrain yourself from using weapons where you might be seen.”
Gareth studied the frozen faces of the assassins. Their postures and expressions had been different from normal humans. These men had confidence; they held no fear. There had been a flame in their eyes that Gareth rarely saw, even among Greyfriar's network of supporters in vampire Europe. Even more disturbing, this was no random attack. This was a staged ambush. These would-be killers had shown a methodical skill to their attacks; they were trained.
Flay kicked one of the rifles. “This gun is new. I've seen the very ones at St. Etienne in the hands of Equatorians. How did Parisian herds get them?”
Gareth recognized the weapons too, the latest bolt-action rifle off the line in Alexandria. He knelt by one of the attackers and drank from him. He sensed fading emotions in the cooling blood. The taste sparked his hunger, so he drew in more to feed his fire and calm his throbbing wounds.
“Damn it,” Gareth said, wiping his bloody mouth with a bloody sleeve. “These aren't herds or southerners. These are Cesare's Undead.”
King Lothaire rushed to his friend's side when Gareth staggered into the throne room in the Tuileries. “Gareth! What happened to you?”
“Nothing.” Gareth's voice was strained, speaking through clenched teeth.
The king took Gareth by his arm and led him to a seat. Several children stopped their usual writhing and slapping to watch the amazing bloody spectacle. Lothaire's eyes went wide as he inspected Gareth. “These are bullet holes. Humans attacked you? Here in Paris? Are we under attack?”
“No, my brother—”
Lothaire stiffened and cut a glance, which along with the sound of a familiar voice from nearby, silenced Gareth and sent his attention to a doorway far to his left.
Prince Cesare appeared in casual conversation with Prince Honore, but halted abruptly at the sight of his wounded brother. A flicker of angry disappointment washed over Cesare's face before he managed a semblance of concern. Just behind him, Honore peered in with open shock.
“Gareth, whatever has happened to you?” Cesare asked with false worry. “Were you mauled by your cats?”
The prince of Scotland laughed wetly in his throat. “No. They would've done worse.” He rose, smoothing his blood-crusted shirt with a red hand, and smiled as best he could. “I'm shocked to see you in Paris, Cesare. Don't you have a party to plan?”
Cesare grunted in open annoyance. His grey suit with knee-length frock coat was immaculate. His black shoes were polished to a gleam, and even his cravat had been expertly tied by a human slave. Prince Honore wore a similar suit, almost a disturbing reflection of Cesare. But now the Dauphin sought to distance himself from the British lord, slipping back against the wall, his gaze trading off between the rival brothers.
“It's prepared,” Cesare replied stiffly. “But I can't proceed without you. I heard you were here and came to offer my personal invitation, if that's what it takes. Since I've found you, will you return to London with me now?”