Vampire Academy and Dimitri all belong to Richelle Mead!
Dimitri crouched defensively and had Malina behind him before his next breath. "Run." He squinted into the blackness, but it was like a wall.
Then the Strigoi was there: a tall, slender, well-dressed man, seemingly in his early thirties, standing at the edge of the light. He had the physical characteristics Dimitri expected - pale skin, red-rimmed pupils, more pronounced fangs – but Dimitri somehow expected the Strigoi to be more alien, more frightening, more monstrous. Instead, he could almost pass for Moroi. A chilling, murderous Moroi, but not an out-of-control monster.
The Strigoi locked eyes with Dimitri and smiled – a cold smile at odds with his neat appearance and relaxed posture. Dimitri held his ground. What had been drilled into him and the other novices their entire lives – that Strigoi could seem just like the people they had been but were therefore that much more dangerous - now had new meaning.
The Strigoi started slowly toward him, white skin even paler in the lights of the physical plant. Then he stopped. There was no magical evidence of the ward; no shimmering force-field, no invisible barrier to press against, he simply could not take another step. He smiled wider, his eyes glinting red as they caught the light. Dimitri's fingers cramped. He tried to hold them loosely, preparing for a strike, but his empty hands hurt from not holding a weapon.
"Dhampir," he called. "Can I ask you just one small question?" Dimitri took a step forward before he caught himself. A Moroi professor had compelled him once, in a class demonstration, and he now had reason to be grateful for that exercise.
The Strigoi laughed, low and grating. "Very nice, Dhampir. I admit it would be much more sporting if you came by your own choice. I could use some practice." His eyes shifted to something behind Dimitri, but Dimitri couldn't take the risk of following his gaze.
"Little earth-user," he called. "I can do that, too." He grinned, flashing his fangs. He crouched down and plunged his hands into the cold hard ground up to his wrists. He ripped a furrow along the invisible barrier of the ward leaving a rough, dark line almost a foot deep and at least ten feet long.
Dimitri couldn't look, couldn't imagine what Malina was doing, couldn't believe she hadn't run. "Go. Get away from here. Please."
The Strigoi stayed focused on Malina but Dimitri caught the flicker in his eyes. Dimitri could see that the Strigoi was baiting him, measuring his reaction and adjusting his behavior accordingly, but his only clear thought was protecting Malina. "Young one," the Strigoi called, uprooting his hands and shaking off the soil, "If the handsome Dhampir won't play, how about you? I could tell you things, show you things… I had an earth specialization, too, before I was Awakened." He lowered his voice confidingly. "I don't miss it. I never got to do anything good with that silly magic. Trading that for this –" he bent and ripped another long, deep line into the ground and flashed his fangs - "strength, speed, eternal life. No contest, pretty thing. Come step over the line and I can show you…"
"I prefer breathing." Her voice shook but her answer was loud and clear.
Dimitri moved, trying to block Malina from the Strigoi's line of sight. "Leave her alone."
The Strigoi smiled, cruel and seductive, ignoring Dimitri. "You, gorgeous, might just be worth the cost. I could show you things – much more than your Dhampir stud could ever dream." He licked his lips and sunk his fangs into his dirt-covered wrist, blatantly pornographic. Blood dripped down his chin and ran along his bare arm. Dropping his trousers and masturbating would have been less offensive.
The satisfying crack of bones mixed with the jarring pain in his elbow and the burn of adrenaline, anger and disgust. He followed through on the strike, slamming the heel of his other hand into the Strigoi's face, bloodying his teeth, breaking his nose, cheekbone, and right eye socket. The Strigoi twisted away easily, wrapped his arm around Dimitri's neck and trapped his arms behind his back. He forced him, almost carelessly, to his knees. Malina screamed.
"Always leave yourself room to maneuver, Dhampir," the Strigoi murmured in his ear. He'd followed his own advice. The tumultuous ward process left surprisingly little evidence, but now Dimitri could see the faint traces on the ground, almost a meter and a half away. The Strigoi had only pretended to be blocked by the ward. Dimitri had sealed his own fate when he'd lost control and crossed the line.
"What's your name?" the Strigoi whispered in Dimitri's ear. The metallic smell of his breath turned Dimitri's stomach. He knew the smell - Moroi sometimes smelled like that, especially after a visit to the feeders – but this smell had an added dimension: the stink of decay and death. He struggled, but the Strigoi tightened his grip and twisted him back around, forcing him to look at Malina.
Every detail stood out to him in painful clarity. Malina was on her hands and knees, clawing at the soil, her coat and gloves lumped beside her in a discarded heap. She bent over, long hair tangling in the dirt and dead grass and patchy snow. While he stared, helpless, she took a deep, shuddering breath and angrily swiped away tears, leaving grimy streaks across her cheeks. He could understand her terror but he was baffled by the rest. He could only watch as her shoulders shook, fighting more sobs while she shoved her hands harder and more frantically against the frozen ground.
"She's next," the Strigoi hissed. He raked his fangs along the side of Dimitri's neck. "What is your name?"
Dimitri struggled but the Strigoi jammed his blood wrist sharply against his windpipe and twisted and tightened his hold on his arms, nearly dislocating his shoulders. Dimitri's ankles strained as he fought to keep his feet under himself despite being forced to kneel. Pain and confusion clouded his thoughts. Why was he still alive? Why wouldn't Malina run?
His mind flipped through scenarios too awful to consider for long. The Strigoi could feed from him – Strigoi preferred Moroi blood but would still drink from dhampirs and humans. He could compel him to get to Malina – Dimitri couldn't resist him for long. Worst of all – worse even than losing Malina, though the horror of that was too much to even contemplate – the Strigoi could take him and turn him: stealing his soul and leaving him a monster, preying on the Moroi he had spent his entire life training to protect. He'd been taught that in most Strigoi-guardian encounters death followed quickly for one or the other. He ignored the mounting horror that in this case death was not his worst option.
He closed his eyes – he couldn't risk the Strigoi's compulsion. He kept struggling but took advantage of his immobility, cataloging a hundred possible techniques and his likelihood of success for each. He couldn't fail. He had to get the Strigoi away from Malina, and he had to kill him. There was no other choice.
He didn't get the chance.
"You can tell me later." Pain sliced through his neck. The euphoria of the bite flooded his system in another moment, pain transforming to pleasure, a near-orgasmic rush that made it impossible to consider anything else. Time slowed, and stopped. He floated, completely lost in bliss.
The world was perfect, beautiful, enchanting. He'd never known such perfect peace.
He soared, he spun. Waves of pleasure flowed over him like an oncoming tide. He let his head fall back, seeking more, fighting to ignore a prickling starting in his toes. The Strigoi drank, sending more waves of ecstasy crashing through him, but the prickling began to burn and spread through his lower legs like circulation being restored. The burning intensified and took on weight, pulling him further from the endorphin high. Dimitri fought the irritating and distracting sensation, wanting the sweetness of the bliss, but the pull downward trapped him even tighter.
Then somehow, through the haze of irritation and pleasure, Dimitri felt the weight in his coat pocket – he did have a weapon.
He forced himself to concentrate, to think around the euphoria. His entire body protested; he only wanted to rediscover that perfect, pure bliss. Moving against that tide of want was painful, but the pins-and-needles sensation centered him. He remembered who and what he was.
He sagged as if yielding further to the Strigoi's tempting embrace, letting his sudden shift in weight pull the Strigoi off-balance. He fell into the Strigoi's chokehold, almost crushing his own windpipe, and the Strigoi's hold completely dislocated his right shoulder. He blocked the pain and reached the stake with his left hand, using the ground as leverage and pushed upward, reversing the line of force before the Strigoi could readjust. His eyes blurred as he battled the remnants of the endorphins, but his training took over as he slammed the back of his head into the Strigoi's face. He twisted, his useless right arm swinging awkwardly, and struck with his left.
The silver stake penetrated the ribcage but turned in his hand, and by feel he could tell that his placement was just centimeters off. He stumbled, still lightheaded, and narrowly deflected the Strigoi's right hook with his dislocated shoulder. The pain blinded him but he pushed back, away from Malina, and tackled the Strigoi to the ground. He used his full weight and strength to shove the stake in deeper, praying he had the angle right to reach the heart.
The strike was inelegant, but effective. The Strigoi went limp, and the night exploded.