she heard a twang, followed by an instant thunk. The bolt of a crossbow? There was no cry of agony, only an eerie, disembodied chuckle that seemed to come from her father’s room and from behind her at the same time. She whipped around, her hand still clasped to the knob.
There was no one there.
Where was Mr. O’Leary? Hadn’t Crenshaw heard the crashes? Hadn’t the servants?
Desperate, she shoved at the door, her shoulder and hip braced against it. Althea threw all her weight—not much—at it. She screamed, hoping to summon someone. Anyone.
The metal knob turned to scorching fire in her palm. In vain she tried to jerk it again, even as her skin screamed in agony. A revolting stench rose—her burning flesh. With a howl, she yanked her hand back. Sickening pain shot up her arm as she pounded on the door. Dizziness washed over her as her wounded hand struck the wood.
The door thrummed beneath her blows. From the gaps in the frame, a blue light spilled out—a light filled with small twinkling stars. Once in the hallway, they flew at her eyes. Her spectacles protected her, but some struck her cheeks, her lips. Each delivered a sharp, horrible pain, like a bite from small, sharp teeth. Slapping at the door helplessly, she had to flinch and shake her head to avoid the stings.
A black shape enveloped her, pulling another scream from her throat. A huge hand wrapped around her wrist and drew her back from the door. Althea fell against a large, black wall—the earl’s massive chest. “You?”
“You are hurt.” Raw fury snapped in his deep voice.
“I don’t matter. My father is in there!”
Still holding her wrist, he raised his booted foot and slammed it into the door. Before her eyes, the door arched inward and snapped back. With a bang, a large crack shot through the middle of it and it sagged on its hinges but still stood as a barrier.
“Bloody Zayan,” the earl muttered.
Althea jerked her gaze to Brookshire’s face, swathed in the pale blue glow. A deep red fire burned in the depth of his eyes and she caught her breath at the sight. He was a demon and she was praying for his help?
But what else could she do? She’d never been so helpless. None of her weapons could help against so much power.
“Get back.”
She flinched at his brutal command.
“Back, goddammit.”
Stumbling back, Althea snagged a slipper in her hem and tumbled against the wall behind. Her stake bit into her stomach and frantic breathing surrounded her—her own, choked and raw and desperate. The earl lifted his gloved hands, palms facing the door.
A blast of light arced from his hands and the door exploded into splinters. He was definitely no ordinary vampire.
“Stay there,” the earl barked as he stepped into a maelstrom of white and blue light. The dazzling stars swirled as though trapped in a whirlpool. They gathered in a large white ball, which raced into the room behind him.
Wresting the stake from inside her wrapper, she got to her feet and staggered to the doorway.
“Miss Yates, you’re not to go in there, lass.”
A hand caught hold of her shoulder, the instant she recognized the voice. Mick O’Leary! Finally!
Althea twisted beneath his grip and rapped the stake across his knuckles.
“Ow. Christ Jesus!” O’Leary’s hand jerked open, giving her an instant to storm forward. As if she would cower in the hallway while her father was in danger! But as she raced into Father’s room, she could not see a thing other than spinning stars and flashes of light.
Cries and shouts and thudding boots came from behind her—O’Leary and other servants charging into the room.
“Father?”
“Althea!”
Dizzy with relief, Althea stumbled through the dark room toward her father’s voice. But cold wrapped around her, squeezing tight. A slithery cold as though an enormous snake had dropped on her. She slashed blindly with her stake. The tip glanced off an object, and she drove harder, with two hands. She felt it penetrate and pushed it home.
Something exploded behind her and the force shoved her forward.
Warm, comforting arms embraced her. “Althea, my love.” Her father’s voice, but weak, a mere whisper near her ear. She pulled her head back from his chest, searching through the screaming lights.
“Father, we must get out. Can you move?”
But he didn’t answer, and she felt his hands brush over her back in the sign of the cross. He muttered over and over. Latin, but her head filled with a rush of sound and she couldn’t understand his words.
“Father, what is it? What are you fighting?”
A clap of thunder burst inside the room and the lights shot away, toward the window. As they moved, they seemed to tug at her, like a ferocious wind that could pull her off the ground. Father’s grip tightened and she clung to him, her hands fisted in his nightshirt.
Her ears rang with the screeching sounds of the fleeing lights, and then, so loud she feared her ears would burst, a cry of rage exploded.
Then silence.
In the center of the strange, frightening stillness, the vampire earl stood, fists raised to the sky. A faint green glow pulsed around him and as she watched, terrified, the soft light sucked back into his body and disappeared.
Her father sagged against her. Althea caught him, tried to hold him up. Where was his bed? Moonlight spilled into the room now, and she saw, to her amazement, that nothing appeared out of place—not the furniture or the bed. The earl lowered his arms. He stood in a pool of moonlight, his hair and face as silver as the light, and he looked like a glowing warrior angel.
“What in the name of God was it?” O’Leary’s charge toward the window yanked her attention from the gorgeous, shimmering vampire. For the first time Althea noticed O’Leary was shirtless but wore his breeches and boots. Four strapping male servants stood transfixed near the door, gaping in astonishment. Father’s coachman and groom—who knew Father hunted vampires—and two Inn footmen, who did not.
Suddenly her father’s weight lifted from her. The earl lifted him and carried him to his bed, bending to lay him gently onto the quilt. O’Leary herded the servants out of the room as Crenshaw’s voice rose from the corridor. “Mr. O’Leary, what has happened?”
“O’Leary can take care of them. Now, who the bloody hell are you?” came her father’s faint querulous voice.
Despite Father’s obvious weakness, a warm relief flooded Althea. He couldn’t be too badly hurt if he was as crotchety as ever. The earl spoke in a low, murmuring voice, too low for her to hear.
“Brookshire, eh? One of the Demon Twins. So you’ve come after your brother, my lord?”
“As a consequence of hunting Zayan, yes.”
“You’ve
