The Red Lily (Vampire Blood #2)(68)

"Oh, what a lovely cloak." She turned it right side in with the rich crimson material on the outside and held it up to view it more fully. "You wore it with the black exterior when you came in. Why would you ever hide this beautiful material?"

"I think you can guess, Ms. Winchester." Sienna spooned a mouthful of the greens, the butter-and-herb flavor melting on her tongue. "We're doing our best not to attract attention."

The widow hung the cloak carefully on a hook near the door. "I see. But such a shame to hide its beauty."

Sienna sipped her water. "I had to, I'm afraid. The soldiers from where I live know me by that cloak. Have you seen any Legionnaires recently?"

"Not recently, no. We had some pass through about a week ago. Drank too much down at Reginald's tavern, got into a brawl with some locals, then disappeared before dawn. It upset Reginald something fierce."

Sienna frowned. "I take it they damaged some of his property?"

"I don't think so." She pulled a rag from her apron pocket and wiped the length of the mantel. "Now that I think of it, they didn't damage anything at all. But they roughed up some of his customers. Seemed to put him in a foul mood that's lasted all week."

"You see Reginald regularly then?" Sienna poked into territory she shouldn't, but something told her the way the widow spoke his name that they were intimate friends.



       
         
       
        

The widow glanced back in surprise, then schooled her expression. "Yes. Reginald is a bachelor and rarely cooks a decent meal for himself. He comes down and pays for a hearty meal from time to time."

"I see." Sienna guessed that the bar owner probably visited her for more than a hearty meal.

"Well, then, I best stop bothering you." Sienna had definitely unsettled her. "I'll be back up for the tray and dishes in a bit. You just rest awhile." Without a backward glance, she swished out the door.

Sienna finished what she could. The widow was a hearty cook indeed. After setting the tray aside, she bolted the lock again and settled back by the fire, her legs tucked under her chin, ruminating over the day. The warmth of the room and the fullness of her belly made her drowsy, but the chilling memory of Kellswater wouldn't let her settle.

The screaming women, the crying children, the men bellowing in rage, fighting to the death for their loved ones. If terror ever took on a form, it was the image of the father running to protect his daughter, then being gutted and decapitated right in front of her, just before the blood-maddened vampire scooped her up to take her back into the hut. He didn't put her in the cages with the other women. He wanted her to himself, right then and there.

Sienna wondered if he let her live, if he could restrain himself from drinking her to death. Or if she was left to bleed out after being brutalized by such a monster. Sienna was surprised how little Nikolai spoke of the event. Even when neither of them wanted to recall what they'd seen, she thought he might explain to her, tell her more what makes men-no, vampires-go completely savage.

But then, what was there to explain? She'd witnessed sanguine furorem raging through Kellswater, not men. The blood madness was a cold evil. And there the queen and her son, King Dominik, who had sat on high, like glorious conquerors, proud of their triumph.

"Bastards," she whispered.

A soft rap at the door jerked her back to the present. The widow was back for the tray. "Coming, Ms. Winchester."

The second her hand landed on the silver knob, a floorboard creaked in the hallway as if someone heavy shifted their weight. Adrenaline rushed through her body, igniting like wildfire.

"Ms. Winchester?"

A second's pause. "Run, my lady! Run!" Then a piercing, gurgling scream.

Sienna launched herself across the room and unhinged the window, glancing back to see the entire doorframe splintering inward. The window came free. She threw the pane upward. The heaving crack of the door falling. She had one leg over the sill and her torso out into the cold night air. A strong arm wrapped her waist, a hand gripped her hair close to the scalp and jerked her downward, then she was pulled back through the window. 

She clawed and fought, grazing the face of her attacker, then was thrown violently to the floor. Landing on her stomach, she looked through the open door now hanging by one hinge, past the feet of four men standing inside the entrance where Ms. Winchester was crumpled in a heap, her sightless eyes gazing at nothing, her throat torn out.

"Pretty little red witch is all alone," came the sickening, familiar voice of the man above and behind her.