The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall by Lauren Smith Page A

There was only one way to deal with these women. She put two fingers between her lips and whistled. The shrill sound cut through the women squabbling over him, and he used the distraction to shove his way clear of them.
    “Hey!” one of the women snapped when she realized her prey was escaping. “Come back!”
    Jane trotted to catch up with Bastian, but they couldn’t shake the group of women. They had only progressed twenty feet from the inn door when a shout halted them in their tracks. Jane bumped into Bastian’s back with an oomph! His free hand instantly caught her around the shoulders steadying her.
    “You hitting on my girlfriend, asshole?” An American man suddenly appeared in front of Bastian and Jane in the direction they’d been trying to flee.
    How in the hell? Jane wondered where the man had come from. It obviously hadn’t been the inn. He held a cigarette in one hand. The tip burned orange in the night as he sucked on it, then flicked it down at Bastian’s feet. Her lips parted, a thousand angry words ready to spew forth, but Bastian still had his arm around her shoulder, and his fingers dug into the coat slightly, as though encouraging her to remain silent. The man in front of them continued to wait for a moment to see if they would answer.
    She tried to make out his features, but it was too dark to see more than a rather unremarkable face, possibly bordering on unattractive. Bastian was an inch or two taller than him but wasn’t nearly as muscled. This guy could have been a professional weightlifter. He probably popped steroids like candy. She tried to breathe and not panic.
    Five more muscled men emerged from the dark behind the first man.
    “Answer me!” The man’s shout reverberated off the brick walls the concrete pavement.
    “Let us pass. We have no interest in your lady or her friends.” Bastian’s voice carried the authority of his noble heritage, but it was completely lost on the muscled idiot in front of them.
    “This guy hit on you, right, Candi?”
    One of the women, the one who’d been stroking Bastian’s chest a few seconds before, stepped out of the crowd, wearing a tight miniskirt and a pink tank top. Jane hated when her fellow Americans became stereotypical bad tourists.
    “He did. He sure did. He even kissed me.” Candi’s red lips twisted into a wicked smile, one that Jane wanted to smack right off her face.
    “He did not kiss you. We don’t even know you!” Jane fired back. This entire situation was insane. They were being accosted by strangers, and there wasn’t a sign of any police. Shouldn’t they be patrolling Weymouth after dark?
    Bastian’s lips pursed into a thin line and exasperation narrowed his eyes as he spoke to the men blocking their way. “Please let us pass. We are tired, and it is late. We have no quarrel with you.”
    “Who the hell do you think you are, huh? Kissing my girl? You’re gonna pay!” The man dove for Bastian.
    In one swift move, Bastian shoved Jane away from him and out of the line of danger and had only seconds to dodge the swinging fist. He managed it, barely.
    “Get him!” The man ordered his friends to join in the fray. The women all staggered back drunkenly on their high heels trying to avoid getting in the middle of what Jane feared was going to be a huge fight. One with terrible odds.
    The thugs surged toward Bastian, and suddenly fists were flying in the dark. It was a dance of living shadows as the men battled each other, accompanied by a symphony of sickening bones crunching and agonized grunts.
    “Bastian!” Jane screamed. Terror spiked through her, raking her insides with claws. God, those men could kill him!
    He answered with a roar of sheer rage and suddenly one of the men careened past her as though shoved by someone in the melee, and he collided with the brick wall of the inn. His head hit first, and the unpleasant sound of skull smashing against stone indicated he was out of the fight for good. His body