She swallowed around a dry throat. “Who are you?”
He executed a flourishing bow. “Robin of Locksley, at your service, ma’am.” He straightened with a smile that turned his freckled face to something foxy…and merry. “Now, unless you think we ought to duel, I really should help my friends.”
“Rob,” a voice said at the door behind her, and she cursed herself for her lapse. While she was busy trying to decide if he was friend or foe, others had joined him. No doubt they’d rappelled down through windows, too.
She ducked to the side so she could press her back to the wall and look at both of them. The newcomer was massive, his own green garb stretched tight over arms as big around as her waist.
He spared her a curious glance, then looked to Robin. Rob. “You good?”
They were both English, she noted.
“Yeah, I think so.” Rob looked over at her, brows raised in silent question.
“My husband–”
“Won’t be harmed. Don’t worry.”
“The Impaler’s down there.”
He grinned. “This should be interesting, then.”
~*~
Nikita got off two quick, accurate shots before his magazine was empty. Shots that hit the target, but did nothing, because Vlad was wearing Kevlar. Of-fucking-course he was. And then there wasn’t time to reload, because Vlad was on him with his sword.
Nikita pulled two of Kolya’s knives from his belt, and whirled.
He slashed out, one fast slice, intending to catch Vlad down the back of his arm. He couldn’t get at the meat of his torso, his heart, specifically, but he could get him bleeding. Sever the important tendons and ligaments that held him upright.
But he didn’t get the chance. Even though Vlad had swung with full-body momentum, he recovered almost right away, and he knocked the tip of Nikita’s knife aside with his sword.
There was an awful clanging sound, and a bolt of pain up Nikita’s wrist, and the knife winked like a shooting star as it sailed across the room.
Shit.
Nikita ducked the next swing. It was a big, two-handed sword, and its movements were necessarily telegraphed. But he couldn’t count on being able to dodge every blow. He would tire, and one would connect, and he’d be cleaved right in half.
Another swing, another duck. Nikita swiped low with the knife and was rewarded by a deep slice on Vlad’s thigh. The tac pants slit and he caught a glimpse of a thin red line of blood before he had to duck again, leap back, retreat.
Vlad pushed him relentlessly back across the floor, faster than anyone with a sword that heavy should have been able. Nikita tripped over the edge of the rug and went down on his hip, already scrambling to right himself. His hand touched something soft and fluffy. His hat! He curled his fingers in its fur.
The problem, Nikita realized – because there was always a fatal flaw in every one of history’s great heroes – was that he was fighting a prince, who fought like a prince. And Nikita was just Moscow street trash.
Vlad prepared another swing.
Nikita bolted up, close, inside his guard, and whipped his hat across the prince’s eyes.
Vlad made a startled sound, and it was the opening Nikita needed to drive his knife up to the hilt in his belly, just beneath the edge of his Kevlar.
A grunt, and another swing that Nikita barely danced back from. He put a good seven strides between them, and waited to see what would happen. While he pulled a fresh magazine from his coat pocket, of course. He wasn’t an idiot.
Vlad had a red scrape above one eyebrow where the sharp edge of the hammer and sickle badge had cut him. Nikita got a good look at it while Vlad’s gaze was downcast, fixed to the knife hilt protruding from his gut. He grimaced, wrapped his free hand around it, and pulled it out.
A chill rippled through Nikita, moving from the inside out. He was in Russia again, watching Rasputin’s skull pop and crack and knit itself back together again.Captain, you’re going to have to do a lot better than that.
The bloody knife hit the rug with a soft sound. Vlad lifted his head, snarled, and charged.
The magazine clicked into place, and Nikita racked the slide, but Vlad was on top of him, and there wasn’t time–
