"Hoo," I exhaled, pushing my damp hair back with the kind of dramatic flair normally reserved for shampoo commercials or seasoned war heroes—which, in this case, I technically was. Below me, sprawled in an undignified mess of limbs and ash-stained robes, lay the corpse of a Vampire Elder. Well, formerly. Now he was just a pile of expensive clothing and bad decisions.
First one since Lazarus.
Seraphina landed beside me with the grace of someone who had grown up dodging arrows, expectations, and traditional elven etiquette. Her sword dripped with black blood, and her eyes—ice blue, sharp as shattered glass—immediately flicked to the bite mark just beneath my jaw.
"He tried," I said, already anticipating the accusation. "Didn't get far. Miasma's gone, burned it out with Purelight."
That seemed to satisfy her for a half-second, which was about as long as Seraphina ever allowed herself to be satisfied before concern reloaded itself like a well-oiled crossbow.
