Page 25 of Curiosity Killed The Vampire

He took it without a word, testing the weight with a slow, deliberate turn of his wrist. The blade moved through the air in a whisper, smooth and precise. It looked right in his hands, natural, like it had been made for him.

A smile curved his mouth. “Perfect balance.”

“It was a gift,” I said, turning away to finish tightening my holster strap. “But it’s always been too bulky for me.”

Con raised a brow, the flicker of amusement in his eyes. “A gift from another admirer?”

I met his gaze over my shoulder, matching his tone. “I would hardly call Rene that. He knows I like rare weapons.”

His grin deepened slightly, something sharp but not unkind in it. “Then I’ll consider it borrowed property.”

“Consider it temporary,” I said.

He strapped the knife to his belt, the motion fluid, practiced. It suited him far too well.

When we left the suite, the hall was quiet save for the whisper of the torches. We passed through the mansion’s east corridor, down the service stairs, and out into the lower courtyard. The night air was biting cold, clear enough to see the mist curling over the mountains in the distance.

The garage was a wide, shadowed structure built into the hillside, its doors reinforced and lined with enchantments. Inside, the smell of fuel and steel replaced the incense of the manor. Rows of black vehicles gleamed under soft white lights, their engines quietly humming with latent power.

Con chose an SUV without hesitation—matte black, modified for rough terrain, its interior stripped of luxury in favor of function. I slid into the passenger seat as he started the engine. The low rumble vibrated through the floor, steady and grounding.

He adjusted the mirrors while I pulled up the map on my phone. “Head east out of the city,” I said. “There’s an old access road that leads into the foothills. It’ll take us most of the way before the trail cuts off.”

He nodded and pulled out, the vehicle gliding down the long drive as the mansion receded behind us.

Quebec City glittered below, the lights scattered like spilled gold across the river. The roads wound through the outskirts, where civilization gave way to pine and stone, and the night grew darker, quieter. Snow began to fall in slow, lazy spirals, gathering against the windshield.

Con drove in silence, his focus steady, the passing headlights tracing lines over his face. Every so often, his hand flexed against the wheel, a subtle tell of anticipation. It was strange—how calm he always seemed before the storm.

We climbed higher into the mountains, the SUV’s tires crunching over gravel and ice. The trees grew denser, their branches heavy with snow that glowed under the moonlight.

After nearly an hour, the road narrowed into a single lane flanked by thick forest. The trace of an old mining path appeared ahead, half-buried under frost.

I placed a hand on the dash. “There,” I said. “That’s the trail.”

Con slowed the SUV and eased it off the main road, parking beside a cluster of rock outcroppings. The engine idled briefly before he cut it, and the sudden quiet pressed in around us.

The only sounds were the wind threading through the trees and the tick of cooling metal.

I opened the door, the cold air rushing in, brisk and clean. The scent of pine hit immediately—earthy, wild, familiar. The mountains stretched upward in shadowed slopes, the outline of the ridge visible against the deep-violet sky.

“The cave should be just up that trail and around the bend,” I said, nodding toward the break in the tree line.

Con stepped around to my side, the curved blade now strapped securely to his thigh. His breath curled in the cold, the glint of gold flickering in his eyes as he looked toward the dark slope ahead.

“Then let’s not keep whatever’s waiting up there waiting any longer,” he said quietly.

The forest loomed before us, ancient and still, and as we started toward the trail, the snow underfoot muffled the world to silence—just two shadows moving toward something buried deep in the mountain, where time had stopped keeping count centuries ago.

CHAPTER 8

The trail was little more than a scar winding through the trees, half-swallowed by snow and time. Frost-laced branches hung low over the path, brushing our shoulders as we moved through the darkness. The moon hung pale and thin above us, its light slicing through the forest canopy in cold, silver ribbons.

The air grew colder the higher we climbed, intense enough to burn in my lungs. The crunch of our boots was the only sound, each step sinking into a layer of snow that glittered with ice crystals. My breath came in measured clouds, the sound of it muted by the hush of the mountain.

Con walked ahead of me, the curved blade strapped at his side catching the barest glint of light. He moved like he was born to this terrain—silent, fluid, the snow barely whispering beneath his weight. I scanned the rock face above us, searching for the markers Julian had described—an indentation, a dark seam against the stone where the mountain hid its secret entrance.

But the slope was unyielding. The rock face stretched upward, slick with frost and tangled with roots. The trail disappeared entirely at one point, replaced by a jumble of boulders and fallen pine.