Bloodbound

I entered through a conservatory tangled with winter roses. A lantern burned over a desk covered in maps, old books and a pair of spectacles, and beneath the dusty glass roof stood a man with his back to me.

He was tall, dressed in a white shirt with its sleeves rolled to the forearms, his black hair tied loosely at the nape. He was repairing a cracked ceramic bowl with the kind of concentration I’d been taught vampires reserved for opening throats.

For a moment I simply watched his hands. Long-fingered, precise, unhurried, they did not look like the hands of something that had lived through three centuries of wars.

I sent the knife before he finished the sentence.

He moved without moving. One instant the blade was crossing the space between us, the next it hung in the air an inch from his chest, perfectly still, while the candle flames leaned towards him as if holding their breath.

Severin turned.

His face was an offence against reasonable expectations: high cheekbones, a strong, elegant mouth and dark eyes that seemed almost black until the lantern caught the deep silver ring around each iris. I had pictured something ancient and repellent, not a man who looked like a painting commissioned by a widow with very expensive tastes.

He glanced at the knife, then back at me.