Dark Slayer by Christine Feehan Page B

touched her neck. In this form, she never gave a vampire the satisfaction of seeing her scars. The vampires and Xavier had done their worst to her, but she remained flawless, untouched, unmarred by their barbarity. If nothing else, it gave her a psychological boost to know they were so shocked by her beautiful appearance.
    The child’s voice crescendoed and Ivory winced. She was going to have to at least check that the little thing wasn’t injured, but that meant exposing herself when she was certain there were both vampires and hunters in the vicinity. She took a deep breath and shrugged, allowing her pack to merge with her skin in the form of tattoos. They would watch her back, and could draw more information from the wind than even she could. With six pairs of intelligent eyes and six noses gathering every detail around them, she felt more secure.
    Let us get this done. And when we find the child, no scaring it. We will take it back to its mother and be done with this .
    The pack didn’t seem anymore enthusiastic than she was. She hadn’t let them run free for some time, knowing the vampires often searched out the wolf packs, hoping to find evidence to track them back to her lair. Soon , she assured.
    She dissolved into vapor and streaked over the snow, staying low to the ground, giving the wolves every opportunity to take in every scent.
    Foul ones. Humans. Carpathians. Blood. The walking dead .
    Ivory processed the information and directions as fast as the wolves fed it to her. Foul ones was the wolf name for vampires. But the walking dead were puppets—nonpsychic humans given vampire blood and promised immortality. The vampires often used them to attack during the day. They were nearly as foul as the vampires themselves.
    She moved even faster, suddenly afraid for the child. For one moment, below her, she caught a glimpse of a man running through the snow, and then he disappeared in the trees. The child’s father? If so, he was arriving a little late.
    She spotted a little boy, thin, with a mop of dark hair reaching his shoulders, struggling against the type of snares that had trapped the wild wolves. Her heart dropped. Another trap. She wasn’t fool enough to believe that the boy had walked into the mass of snares himself. He’d been forcibly taken from somewhere—she knew by the smell of death and blood—and staked out like a sacrificial goat, the thin wires cutting into his hands and ankles. There was one around his neck. He was crying, but he stood stoically, refusing to fight and worsen the already deep cuts.
    She didn’t believe this boy had been set out as bait for her—more likely for Razvan. He had a child and he had given his soul, or at least a piece of it, to save her. Xavier would know he would risk everything to save a child. She was in for a fight, but she couldn’t leave that child. The vampires were expecting a starving, sick, tortured Razvan, not the slayer, scourge of all undead.
    She formed close to the boy, noting that he didn’t wince or scream out in fright, which meant he’d seen a Carpathian before and they had allowed him to retain his memories. “It’s a trap,” he mouthed. He stared at the wolf tattoos with their bared teeth and lifelike eyes covering her shoulders and arms as she bent to gently set her crossbow in the snow and withdraw a pair of cutters.
    She nodded her understanding. “Keep crying,” she hissed as she snipped his left wrist free. It was brave of him to try to warn her when he must have been terrified.
    The boy didn’t miss a beat, keeping up a lively rendition of wailing while she cut loose the wire on his neck and carefully removed it. Her fingertips brushed the thin necklace of blood circling his neck. Her fingers crept up to her own neck, fluttered there for one moment as she remembered the bite of the sharp blade.
    The boy couldn’t be more than eight or nine, with his thin face and large, intelligent eyes. He was watching her carefully, studying