by S. W. Clarke
“There’s no phone in here,” he said dully, the thread of rage growing as the words came out.
“GoneGods, a murderous idiot.” I leaned toward the counter, pulled my throwing knife from beneath the pile of hand towels. “For five years, here I’d thought the ex-vamps who killed my family would at least be wise, if not smart. You were immortal, after all. You had centuries. But you’re just a gullible fool, aren’t you?”
I watched my words enter his headspace, one by one. The rage was supplanted by shock, his mouth opening. Then by recognition, and his eyes narrowed.
Now he knew me. Or if he didn’t know me, he at least knew one thing: I wasn’t Delilah, a small woman. An underling.
And then he saw me. His eyes traveled over all the scars on my shoulders, my arms, my hands. He saw the way I gripped my knife. Then, finally, his eyes met mine.
And there, he saw my bloodlust.
“That’s right,” I whispered. “You didn’t know it, but the day the gods left, you sealed your death date.”
He sucked in a breath. “I killed someone you cared about, right? Mom? Dad? Whole family?”
My mouth formed a straight line. I didn’t expect him to have remembered, but it still hurt. It hurt that my family wasn’t even a recollectable memory in his brain.
But he would never forget me. I would be the last person he ever saw.
Sirens pooled in through the walls, their far-off call promising the law delivered straight to this doorstep. The cops had responded to my call faster than I’d expected.
We two in our standoff didn’t take our eyes off one another, even though recognition entered his. He had to escape. It was his only way out of this.
I waited for the moment he’d move. Waited for his attention to be on getting past me, through the door.
And eventually, he telegraphed it. His jaw twitched just before he started into motion.
In a single motion, I lifted the throwing knife, flicked it straight and true at his heart. The adrenaline didn’t mess with my aim—it made it better. More precise. No one could have dodged that throw at this distance. And he didn’t.
But he did manage to keep his heart out of it. He fell against the counter, the blade sinking into his chest near the shoulder. With a yell, he rushed me, the grip of the blade protruding from his tuxedo jacket.
I leaned against the door, kicked out again with my heel. But that much force and that much determination rushing straight at me couldn’t stop that oncoming train of an ex-vamp.
He threw my leg aside, grabbed me by both shoulders. For a moment his wild eyes had murder in them, and then he simply threw me aside toward the toilet with a good old-fashioned vampiric hiss.
Some things never change.
I staggered against the toilet, nearly tripping over it before I caught myself. By the time I’d got my balance, he had unlocked the door and was halfway through it.
I cursed, grabbing the second throwing knife I’d hidden behind the toilet. This was my backup, though I hadn’t ever expected to need it. I kicked off both heels, and they clattered against the wall.
Peter was already out the door; it clunked shut behind him.
My feet slapped against the tile, and I yanked the door open with the knife in my hand like I was in a horror flick.
And for once, the vampire wasn’t the one doing the chasing.
Chapter 9
I slid into the hallway, glancing left first. No Peter. Then I spun right, spotted him at a full-tilt run down the hall.
The sirens were louder now; the cops had arrived, their red-and-blue lights moving over the walls and ceiling in a frenetic imitation of a disco ball.
Elsewhere, people rushed to escape. A woman skittered down the hallway past me, bumping me as she gave her best effort to run in her sky-high heels. “Police,” she breathed, as though I wouldn’t have been able to tell otherwise.
Meanwhile, I spotted the back of Peter’s head as he veered into another room far down the hallway. He knew I was back this way, and he knew what awaited him in the main ballroom and the front entrance.
I ran down the hallway after him, found myself at a pair of massive wooden pocket doors. I yanked one open enough to slip through, and I pulled it closed before the cops noticed.
This was between Peter and me. I didn’t want them interfering.
Inside, an enormous library covered all four walls, built-in bookcases rising some twenty feet to the ceiling. And even in the center, free-standing bookcases were filled with more tomes.
Meanwhile, the room was dark. Dark except for the police lights spinning through the windows, red and blue in a manic puppet show across the walls and books.
No Peter in sight. He could be behind any one of the bookcases. He could be in any corner.
I stood with the knife at my side, a light grip. Ready for anything.
There wasn’t time for me to wait him out. But he also didn’t have time to hide in here—not with me and the cops searching.
So I knew my best bet was to remain where I was. Waiting, listening, watching.
I swallowed, my heartbeat rushing in my ears. I tried to focus past it, but I’d spent so many years awaiting a moment like this, my heart hammered triple-time, so hard I thought it might burst out of me.
And, of course, I had one other problem: I wasn’t a killer.
This man deserved to die, but I’d never killed anyone. I’d thought about it, wanted for years to do it, but now that the moment had arrived in all its blaring, technicolor glory, I felt wholly unequipped. Unprepared.
Come on, Tara. Focus.
He killed your family. Remember that. Remember them.
I pulled in air through my nose, sent it out through my mouth. Percy could never know about this. No matter what happened, Percy couldn’t know my intent or the outcome, whatever it might be.
He had to be protected.
Footsteps sounded from my left.
Peter, rushing at me.
I leapt forward, dropped into a forward roll. When I came up next to a bookcase, I spun, lifting the knife.
Peter slammed into me, faster than you could ever expect an ex-vamp with a knife sticking out of his shoulder to be. He was a human, for GoneGods’ sake, just like me. But the guy must have trained for all the people seeking vengeance on him, because he was a terrific fighter.
We went down, he atop me. This was the worst position to be in. It was a woman’s death sentence. He was already moving to straddle me, to pin my arms down with his knees. We scrabbled.
Before he could get both arms, my left hand curled, and I plowed my fist not into his face. Not into his arm. Not even into his gut.
I went lower.
This wasn’t the moment for prudishness. It was the moment for jangling the jewels.
I knew I’d hit the mark when his face shifted from ferocious anger to eyebrow-lifting, heavenward-facing pain.
“Oh GoneGods,” he groaned, and it didn’t take much to tumble him off me.
I rolled, pressed up to my feet. It was the most automatic thing in the world to take two steps toward the enormous bookcase he’d fallen beside and set both hands on it.
I tested it, found I could wobble it with some effort. For as rich as the owners of this building were, they hadn’t invested in well-built furniture to contain their mountains of books.
All the better for me.
Outside, police bootsteps slapped down the hall. They would be inside this room soon enough, which meant Peter would be handcuffed and put in a cell. And later, he’d be walking free.
Maybe even in the same year. Hell, the same month.
And here I was, with the power of the gods at my fingertips. I could take life, just like that vampire clan had taken my family’s life that night. It had been quick, swift, without remorse.
They had acted as gods, and now they would receive the same judgment. All of them.
No cops necessary.
I stared down at the writhing ex-vamp beneath me. �
�I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you get caught so you can live out the rest of your life in some cushy cell while my parents are being eaten by worms.”
With gritted teeth, I set my boot against the base of the bookcase, pulled at it.
Peter lay on his back, eyes meeting mine, hands still clutching at his groin. When he recognized my intent, he flipped onto his stomach, began scrambling for purchase on the marble floor.
The bookcase rumbled, groaned as it began to tip. It quickly gained momentum, and just as all the books came sliding out and the whole thing crashed to the floor, Peter rolled out from under it.
He landed on his stomach, hands pressed to the marble. He found my eyes in the moment before he pressed himself up. And just like that, he booked it for one of the massive windows along the wall facing onto the street.
He didn’t lift the window. Didn’t climb up onto the sill and test to see if it was locked.
No—he burst through it like a cartoon character, leaving glass tumbling in his wake.
And me? Well, the cops stood shocked as a barefoot, cursing street performer rushed out of the library and into the hallway.
↔
I allowed myself to be led out onto the back lawn. My wrists were cuffed with sturdy metal, and I’d long ago learned it was best not to argue, not to protest.
Things always went better when I played my role.
That is, until we emerged onto the patio and I found myself staring at a crouched Percy, his wings extended, growling at a band of five cops with their guns out and pointed at him.
Not again.
“Tell them to stop.” I jerked against my cuffs, and the cop’s hand gripping my arm. “That’s my dragon. We’re street performers—I’ve got a license.”
“Calm down,” the cop said. “We’re getting the situation under control.”
I spun on him. “Let me talk to him. He’s just a baby—he’s scared, and I’m the closest thing he’s got to family.”
The cop seemed to be evaluating how much a threat I was. Meanwhile, Percy roared—his warning that he was about to spray fire.
I swallowed, leveled my gaze on the cop. “I’m cuffed. Barefoot. All I can do is help you defuse this situation.”
He paused, finally nodded at me. When I started toward Percy, he kept his hand on my arm.
“Perce!” I called out. “It’s all right. Just do like I taught you around the police, remember?”
He froze on hearing my voice, stared right at me. “Tara, they’ve got you in handcuffs?”
“It’s just temporary, Percy.” I stepped closer. “They’ll take these cuffs off just as soon as we calm down and I show them my license. Now do as I told you.”
A moment elapsed in which his wings didn’t retract. And then, like folding shutters, they both came tight to his body and he lowered himself right down to the grass, setting his head on the ground.
The cops descended on him, restraining his head by way of his neck. All but one of them—a female cop who looked familiar.
Percy’s eyes went wide beneath all the hands and knees, his mouth opening.
“Jesus, not like that,” I cried. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to yell like a madwoman, not to tell Percy to burn all of them. He could have thrown them off so easily. He could have overpowered all five at once.
But he didn’t.
The female cop glanced at me. Her lips folded, and she turned back to the others, holstering her gun. “Up off the dragon. Get your knee off his neck.”
A minute later, they let me sit down next to Percy in the grass. His whole body shook like he was hypothermic, and I scooted toward him to allow his head to fall into my lap.
I couldn’t stroke him as he liked, but I could whisper to him. I could tell him how he’d done the right thing, and what a good dragon he was. How all of this would be over soon, and he’d be safe.
After a time, I glanced up to find the seven—handcuffed—ninjas being led out onto the lawn and seated not far from me.
Ferris met my eyes, made sure he sat close enough for us to talk. “They’re in cages,” he hissed at me.
“Who’s in cages?”
“The gnomelings. They’re being treated like feral animals.”
Before I could ask further, the police started bringing out cat carriers, one by one. And inside one I spotted the tiny hands of a gnomeling gripping the bars. They were stacked by threes not twenty feet from where we sat, and soon a piteous mewling started as the cops went about their business.
Percy raised his head. “It’s the gnomelings.”
“What’s that, Perce?”
“The gnomelings are crying.”
I listened. Sure enough, their tiny voices cried out into the night. The sound was heartbreaking, and I didn’t know how anyone could let it go on.
All at once, the ninjas were berating the police with helium-filled rage. I couldn’t make out any one rant; they were all voicing their frustrations with equal volume.
Finally, in a moment’s pause, Ferris said to a passing cop, “I ought to put you in a cage,” he called out.
Now I wasn’t fond of the situation Percy and I were in, but I also knew this wasn’t the way. And I’d definitely tried out my share of name-calling and threats in my day.
“You take that back,” I said to Ferris. “They’re just doing their jobs, and they’re taking down these gnome traffickers.”
Ferris glared at me. “One right doesn’t fix a wrong.”
He wasn’t wrong, but he also wasn’t accomplishing much. Neither were any of the other ninjas, for that matter.
I met the eyes of the female cop who’d allowed me to go to Percy and soothe him—the same one I’d first met a few days ago during our chase. She had short, dark hair and a cupid’s bow mouth. Whenever she felt conflict I sensed she bit her lip, as she was doing now.
“Officer?” I called out, nodding her over.
To my surprise, she came over.
I gazed up at her. “Do you have children, Officer?”
“I do. Two boys.”
“Would you stand even for one minute for your boys being held in cages like feral animals?”
She paused, eyes flicking to the gnomelings. Then back to me. “It’s just temporary, until we get the situation sorted.” She hadn’t answered my question, but the lip biting resumed in the wake of what she’d just said.
“Now I’m not going to pretend I could do your job, but I suggest you let them out,” I said softly. “They’re not going to go anywhere. They just want to be with their family.”
It wasn’t often I made a plea to an authority and they did as I asked. But the GoneGods must have taken pity on me after that ex-vamp got away, because the lady cop did instruct the others to let the gnomelings out.
And one by one, the cage doors were opened. Eight gnomelings were released, eight of them brought over to the overjoyed ninjas.
Not nine. Eight.
Box of frogs. The last one was still missing, and I knew exactly what had become of him.
Chapter 10
“There are supposed to be nine!” Ferris yelled.
“What?” one of the cops asked.
“Nine of them. Nine gnomelings.” Ferris began counting off and nodding at each one—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—with mounting anger and concern. Finally, after eight, he bellowed, “There’s not nine! Where is he?”
One cop turned to another. I heard him whisper, “Did you hear anything about a ninth?”
The other shook his head. “These were all we found.”
The first officer tsk’d, rubbed a hand over his scalp. “These are the only ones we were able to recover so far. We’ll have to look into it,” he said to Ferris.
“ ‘Look into it’ my tiny gnomish arse,” Ferris snapped. On he went berating the police, sometimes raising his face to the sky as though speaking to his missing goddess.
“Ferris,” I murmured, “it’ll be all right. Yelling will make
it worse.”
But would it?
The ninjas deserved to know what I had seen, even if that meant they’d also know I had chosen to go after the ex-vamp instead of rescuing the ninth gnomeling. GoneGodDamn that Peter. He and his wife had bought a sentient creature’s life, and that woman had dropped the gnomeling into her purse like a dog.
The thought made me want to rave at the sky like Ferris was doing. But that wouldn’t do us any good; what I had to do right now was tell him the hard truth.
I cleared my throat. “Uh, Ferris?”
The gnome went on railing against the clouds and the moon and the GoneGods, not even hearing me.
“Ferris,” I said in a stronger voice.
This time he heard me. His pinched, angry face swiveled around. “What is it?”
“Well, you see.” I paused. “I saw the ninth gnomeling. He was in a purse.”
Ferris’s eyebrows drew together. He scooted closer across the grass until he sat uncomfortably close, staring me down. “What did you say?”
I cleared my suddenly closing throat again. “When I went inside to look for the ex-vamp, I saw your gnomeling in his wife’s purse. Sort of like…a chihuahua.”
Ferris’s glare was so powerful I thought he might give me a coronary just with the power of his anger. “A chihuahua?”
What I was about to say burned me right up. “Yeah, like how Paris Hilton might carry around her dog.”
He glanced around. “And where is the gnomeling? Surely you rescued him on seeing such a horrific display.”
I sighed. Being an adult was sometimes even harder than being an avenger. “I chose to go after my target. The man who participated in my family’s murder.”
GoneGodDamn, stop justifying, Tara.
Silence elapsed, during which I found my eyes fixed on Ferris’s chest. I couldn’t bear to look into his face.
“You forsook the gnomeling,” Ferris said with low steel in his voice.
Of course, Percy was listening to everything as he pressed up against me.
“What did she look like?” Ferris asked.
“Dark-brown hair, slender, maybe five-two.”
