Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 37

William presents me an exceedingly slender sword. "This is a saber capable of piercing and slashing."

I don't move. "It's utterly unnatural to me. I abhor violence."

"Anne," says Vander, "purity of heart will not slay this monster. Some beasts must be conquered through force."

"But then I will be just like him."

"Only if you enjoy it."

"Trust me, my reluctant warrior." William reaches for my hand and guides it to the weapon's hilt, wrapping his fingers over mine, closing them upon the weapon. An intricately engraved guard curls over my hand and wrist for protection. I try to breathe. It feels as if William is bending me to his will, but I'm not entirely sure I mind. He draws his thumb across my wrist and fingers, adjusting my grip. "For one night, allow yourself the pure pleasure of movement. Fencing is an extremely refined art, and I suspect with your creative temperament, you may quite enjoy it." He releases me, leaving me awash in longing.

I look down at the floor to hide my fresh warmth beneath my hair. Vander is smiling. He is, no doubt, enjoying my discomfort, reclining in his chair as if watching a play upon his personally designed stage.

"Be careful, William," he says. "Anne is stronger and faster than she looks. Go slow and easy, my man."

"I shall never underestimate Anne's strength," he says, pulling me into the center of the room. "For He that dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose." I smile at the sound of my words on his tongue. Grabbing his own saber, he confidently demonstrates the proper stance.

I attempt to mirror him but I am certain that I'm failing miserably. This will be the perfect opportunity to show off my athletic ineptitude and humiliate myself in the process. At least I have one thing going for me. I'm wearing my sleek black hunting gear, and although it is not the traditional all-white garb of a fencer, I'm dressed somewhat appropriately for exercise. William squints slightly as he sizes up my stance, then comes back to me. His hands move to my hips, shoulders and grip, making minute adjustments, refusing to linger. Cool and professional, he is all seriousness but I feel shaky. The tip of my saber trembles. In 165 years, I have not been touched this much. I take a deep breath, willing myself to concentrate on his words and ignore the distraction of his physical presence.

"Where did you learn to fence?" I ask.

"My mother was a traditionalist with strong Romantic tendencies. When I was a young boy, she insisted I learn Latin, Greek and fencing. Later I continued my training at Oxford."

Vander takes a sip of blood. "Your advantage, Anne, comes in being underestimated. The Alpha believes you are gentle and passive. You will win through misdirection and skill. Most Alphas don't know how to fight with any technique. They have never needed to. Always his strength has been enough, and no one uses swords anymore. The flesh, no matter how strong, cannot withstand steel."

"But I can't kill a Night Walker with one night's training."

"Surprise trumps training," says Vander. "I speak from experience. I used a blade myself once, having never trained with it, only watching and waiting."

"On whom?"

"My maker."

"You killed your maker?"

"I was not made to be a slave."

William momentarily pauses, not seeming to have heard this story.