He dug in his heels and refused to budge. “On the contrary, I do. I am a scientist, and more, an adventurer. You yourself said so. Thus, I must record my adventures, and I cannot do that if you tug me away from interesting ones.”

She stopped trying to pull him away from the booth, gesturing toward the flap that hid the inside of the tent while saying, “By all means, go ahead and see for yourself. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of an adventure, or the pursuit of knowledge.”

You are smiling, he said as he entered the close confines of the tent. Inside, there was some sort of odd reclining chair, several tables, and a woman with heavily drawn black around her eyes who looked up from a journal she was reading. I suspect you know something you are not telling me. What is it?

No, no, I wouldn’t want to ruin your scientific studies of piercings and modern society. You just go on and find out for yourself.

“May I help sir?” the woman asked, getting to her feet. She appeared to have small bits of metal stuck to her nose, eyebrows, and lower lip. He stared at those for a few moments before recognizing the look she was giving him.

“My woman is outside,” he told her. “I do not wish to have sexual congress with you.”

She paused for a moment, then pursed her lips. “Your loss. Do you wish for a tattoo? Piercing?” She brazenly eyed the front of his breeches. “Would sir be interested in a Prince Albert, perhaps?”

“I am a baron, not a prince, and my name is Nikola, not Albert,” he corrected her.

The woman smiled. “A Prince Albert is a piercing, Baron. A small circular barbell is inserted in your cock. It will give much pleasure to your partner, I assure you. If you would remove your jeans, I will assess you for what size barbell would be best to start with.”

He stared at the woman for a few seconds, then turned on his heel and exited the tent. Io stifled a laugh when she saw his face.

He ignored it, saying simply, “The creation of the bikini aside, I must question the sanity of your times, Io.”

She laughed out loud. “Where piercings are concerned, I totally agree. The woman who runs that place wanted me to get my nipples tattooed. I shudder to think of what she offered to do to you.”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Moving along, then…if you’re done exploring the subject of body enhancements, Imogen’s booth is on the right, at the end. Now, be gentle with her, Nikola. She’s not expecting you to suddenly come back to life, and we wouldn’t want to give her a heart attack or some—well, hell. She’s not there.”

He looked where Io pointed to a booth covered in black canvas with gold runes painted on it. “My daughter is a soothsayer?”

“She reads rune stones, yes.” Io bit her delicious lower lip, instantly causing him to want to do the same. “I wonder where she went? This is all sorts of anticlimactic, Nikola. I was ready for a happy reunion. I brought tissues and everything, in case Imogen cried buckets at seeing her beloved daddy risen from the grave—hey!”

Io rammed into him, half turning as she did so to glare back at the person who had shoved her.

Nikola turned to deal with the rude person, but at that moment, the crowd of fairgoers went berserk as a sense of pandemonium gripped them. Women screamed, men shouted, children shrieked in fear, and all of them turned as one body and stampeded past Nikola and Io to the open end of the fair, and safety.

“What on earth—” Io started to say.

Nikola thrust her into the space between his daughter’s booth and the one next to it, standing protectively in front of her so that she wouldn’t be trampled.

“What’s going on?” Io said, nudging his back and trying to peer over his shoulder.

The crowd streaming past them began to thin, and he could see at the far end three men who were stalking down the center aisle, sweeping bloodied scythes before them. “It would appear the grim reaper is here. And he is a triplet.”

“Who? And what?”

Io pushed him so she could see, but he stood solid, his gaze narrowed on the three men as they approached. “Perhaps it isn’t the grim reaper—there are three men, and other than the blood-splattered scythes they are all holding, they appear perfectly ordinary.”

“Liches!” a woman with short red hair yelled as she bolted past them, following on the heels of the crowd. “For the love of the goddess, everyone take shelter! Liches are here!”

“I stand corrected,” Nikola said, watching the men. “They are evidently liches.”

“What’s a lich?” Io asked, holding his shoulder and craning her head to see them.

“I have no idea. Assumedly someone who slaughters others with iron farm implements. No, remain behind me, there is no time for me to find a place for you to seek shelter as that woman advised. I will keep you safe from harm.”

“OK, one, that he-man crap doesn’t pull a lot of weight with me. Well, a little, because I appreciate the fact that you’re standing there thinking about ways of disarming them should they come after us, and I flunked out of my self-defense class because I get squeamish about hitting people, and yes, I know that’s not the right attitude to have when defending oneself—lord knows, my instructor kept telling me that self-defense wasn’t about anything but keeping yourself safe—but regardless, I do appreciate it, and at the same time, I don’t. If you know what I mean. Which I can see that you don’t by the fact that you’re looking at me like I’m one antler short of a reindeer.”

Your conversations never fail to interest me, sweetling, but now is not the time for blethering.

I was not blethering! she said, mentally bristling. I never blether! I am not a bletherer! What’s blethering? Wait, it’s like babbling, isn’t it? Well, Mr. My Words Are Like Pearls from a Swine’s Ear—

Sow.

I beg your pardon?

It’s pearls from a sow’s ear, not swine’s ear. “What the devil?”

A small group of people ran past them from the opposite direction, a man and two women, one of whom had familiar long, blond hair.

“Oh, look, there’s Imogen,” Io said helpfully, clutching his shoulders as she peered around his head. “And I think that’s your son. Hell’s teeth! That’s one heck of a big sword Ben’s carrying!”

Two other men approached, clearly following on the heels of the threesome. Nikola noted the two swords held by one of the men, and the large ax held by the other.

“Stay here,” he said, and, reaching out, snatched one of the swords from the closest of the two men.

“What? Nikola! Dammit, man! I will not be left—holy deranged ax murderers!”

Io followed him, much to his irritation. I asked you to stay back, Io, and I expect you to honor that request.

It wasn’t a request, it was an order. An annoying and unrealistic order. One that I’d have to be an idiot to follow, so you can just stop thinking about tying me to the booth, and instead pay attention to the dude with the beard, because he doesn’t look any too happy about you taking his sword, and I think he’s going to—look out!

Io screamed just as the man whom he had de-sworded swung at him. Everything seemed to happen at once: He slammed the hilt of the sword against the head of the man, sending him reeling backward, then on the backswing, parried a thrust by the man holding the ax, tripping him so he, too, fell over backward, crashing heavily against one of the booths. The sounds of breaking wood, tearing canvas, and the tinkle of shattered glass were followed by some profane oaths. In front of him, the man and two women stopped to look back just as the three scythe holders shouted, and ran forward toward them.

“Papa?” he heard the blond woman ask, her voice filled with incredulity.

“Nikola, wait,” Io yelled, leaping over the prone form of the man with the ax, stopping to kick out his leg from under him when he tried to rise and disentangle himself from the booth.

When we return home, I will make sure to find the time to explain to you why it is that you must attend to me when I give orders, he told Io sternly as she ran up behind him, clutching the back of his shirt. Do not block my arms, sweetling. I must be able to swing the sword, and I can’t do that if you are clinging to me.

Oh, sorry. She let go, her concern for him warming him to the tips of his toes. She truly cared about what happened to him, and was honestly worried that he would be harmed. He cherished that sentiment almost as much as he cherished the silk undergarments that made wearing tight breeches extremely comfortable.

Seriously? You’re fawning over your undies now? I can understand some of that, because you look really hot in them, and I just want to fondle…but no, now is not the time. Pay attention, Nikola. There are baddies in front and behind you. We can discuss your underwear later, in the hotel room.

I am a Dark One, he reminded her, striding forward past where Imogen was standing and staring at him with an open mouth. You will cease worrying. It is extremely difficult to kill me. “Imogen, you will catch flies if your mouth hangs open like that. Benedikt, stand back. I will attend to these ruffians.”

“Who the hockey pucks is that?” the tall woman next to his son asked, giving him a less-than-friendly look.

Benedikt looked older than when he had last seen him, but Nikola felt a swell of pride that his son had grown to be a man of prepossessing appearance. “Your mother would be pleased,” he told his son before swinging his sword, catching the nearest of the scythe wielders on the shoulder, neatly severing his arm.

The man stopped dead in his tracks, looking in blank astonishment at the sight of his arm—still holding the bloody scythe—lying on the ground in front of him. “Oy!”

The man nearest him also stopped, but his attention was on Benedikt, his black eyes narrowed until they were veritable slits. “There’s the Dark One! Kill the women and take him!”

“That’s my arm!” the first man said, looking from the blood spurting from his shoulder down to the arm on the ground. “Oy!”