Shattered Ashes (Dying Ashes Book 3)

by Annathesa Nikola Darksbane

  My mind wandered to what Garibaldi had said, to what T-shirt Girl Aine had said. I imagined either of my young friends floating in the crosshairs of a scope at this very moment.

  I might not could stop Tamara—Meladoquiel—right now, but there was another problem I could fix.

  “Can I borrow someone’s phone?” I rasped at the struggling boys. “Mine’s as dead as I am.”

  “Sure thing, chica muerta.” Jason expertly plucked Rain’s smartphone from his back pocket and tossed it to me. “Who you gonna call?”

  “Ghostbusters,” I replied without thinking, fishing a mildly damp business card out of my coat pocket.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Best served red-hot

  Do me a favor, I’d typed. Let your “friends” know I'm back on my feet.

  I take it you’ve got a plan, had come her prompt reply. Y’know, most people wouldn't just sell out a group of their own at the drop of a hat, even if they didn't like them…but lucky for you I'm not that kinda girl. Have fun.

  I’d taken advantage of Rain’s phone to send one more message. Then I hit the streets.

  After the failure to capture Meladoquiel, I opted to go for a leisurely stroll through the back alleys of the Magic City, to clear my head and try to shake the lingering, nagging feeling that Jason was correct: something about all of this felt wrong.

  But first, I had to fix a problem.

  I felt the eyes on me soon enough. Either my new contact had kept her word, or my blood-drinking stalkers had caught on really quick.

  But like many things lately, the situation wasn’t what it appeared to be. Wherever the hidden eyes were watching me from, they weren’t actually hunting me.

  I was hunting them.

  Or at least, that’s what I thought.

  When I pried open a door and slipped into a massive warehouse servicing Strider Materials’ Metal Galvanizing, I fully expected a showdown with some vampires.

  But I expected the red-blooded variety, not the pale-skinned and bright-eyed kind.

  I realized I’d left the hostile prying eyes behind about the time that Petra Blagojevic stepped out from behind a stack of heavy crates.

  The pump-action combat shotgun in one hand and the armor-plated vest crinkling her white dress shirt might have meant business, but it was the look in her liquid hazel eyes that promised violence.

  “Well, well,” she said. “Been looking for you for quite a while.”

  “Petra?” Caught off guard, my rapier wit took over.

  “Yeah, me,” she retorted. Slowly, the Moroi began to circle me like a shark, the shotgun clenched with one hand on the forestock. “Did you forget about me? Just assumed someone had killed me, like you killed Silvia?”

  I shook my head and held up my empty hands; it was all too easy to see where this confrontation was headed—the graveyard. “Look, it wasn’t like that. We didn’t have a choice.” My words didn’t even sound convincing to me. Probably because I wasn’t certain I believed them. “She’d been—”

  “Possessed?” Petra snapped, her voice sharply accented and viciously angry. I realized I’d never actually heard her real voice before, only Meladoquiel’s version of it. “You think I don’t know that?” She tapped the side of her own head with her free hand. “She lived in here too! Controlled my body like a doll. I know Ca-Lethe Meladoquiel.”

  I frowned, keeping a cautious distance. “Then you know how dangerous she is, how dangerous her plans are.”

  “You say that like you know the first thing about her plans. Or ours.” Petra shook her head in disgust, adjusting the double belt of red-cased shotgun shells wrapping around her hips. Warning bells started going off in the back of my head. “What we were really trying to do, before she—and you, damn you—fucked it all up.”

  “Okay,” I admitted defensively, “you’re right. I don’t, not really. But you do. You know what’s going on, you could help clear Tamara’s name, help us stop an Ur-demon—”

  “I don’t care about doing the right thing anymore.” The Moroi’s face twisted, not just with rage but with pain and grief that shone from her wide, gleaming eyes. “Once, yes, but not anymore. I’m a half-blood that’s already fucked up beyond absolution. My fate is sealed. I’ve been cast off by both sides; all I can do now is avenge the person I cared about most in this world—or join her a little sooner.”

  In one smooth motion, Petra racked the shotgun with one hand and leveled it at my chest.

  I had the sudden feeling that negotiations had failed.

  “You killed my sister.” Her hazel eyes crystallized, going cold and hard. “I don’t care if you are a Strigoi—I’m going to destroy you.”

  My first thought was to just let her shoot me. A shotgun didn’t scare me in the slightest.

  But if Petra knew what I was, why would she bring a gun to a vampire fight?

  I snapped forward, covering the fifteen feet between us in an instant, clamping my hand down on the shotgun’s barrel and pushing it away from me—

  —As a gout of flames and sparks fountained from the barrel with a dull, angry roar.

  I recoiled in fear, leaping away as the Dragon’s Breath ammunition lived up to its name, the palm of my hand seared raw from the barrel’s sudden heat. The cone of blazing magnesium arced toward me unnaturally, several solitary embers drifting hungrily toward my flammable flesh faster than I could dodge.

  At the last moment, I twisted to let them hit my thin jacket, and hoped for the best.

  A dozen flecks of white-hot metal embedded themselves in the black fabric—and sputtered out, extinguished by its enchantments.

  Charles’ gift, the thin, durable cardigan that had survived the past couple of months with me, wasn't layered with the years of protective magics that the wizard’s was, and it obviously wouldn’t do shit to protect me from a good dunking.

  But it would repel a few sparks that would otherwise send me up in flames like a Roman candle.

  And while the magnesium specks sizzled angrily and winked out, Petra racked the shotgun again and pointed the barrel at my vulnerable face.

  Discretion being my favorite part of valor, I dove behind some boxes.

  The dragon in her hands roared again without hesitation, and I knew better than to stop moving. Another cone of lethal fire washed over the crates an instant after I vacated their shadow, reaching for me with flaming fingers.

  Suppressing my vampiric instinct to panic ineffectually, I got the hell out of the way as Petra’s handheld flamethrower belched death again and again. I darted through the darkness, moving between massive racks of goods, hiding behind shelving and boxes, trying to keep my distance and use her lack of supernatural night vision against her.

  But Petra Blagojevic dogged my steps like a vengeful spirit, unrelenting and unforgiving, her every strike sending flames blooming in my wake. The fire blazed bright as it latched onto each and every desperate shield, quickly stripping me of any shadowy cover, dancing merrily and spreading toward me as if it too hungered for revenge.

  Boom. Boom. Boom. Like a giant’s footfalls chasing me down, a little closer with each thunderous step. Boom. Boom.

  Click.

  That sound was my only chance, and I knew it. I didn’t hesitate, reversing direction and lunging across the open area in the warehouse’s center with claws extended. Moroi blood splattered the concrete slab floor, painting it with sweeping splatters as I opened Petra’s arm down to the bone, her empty shotgun clattering to the floor.

  She responded by cracking a magnesium flare and dropping it at my feet.

  I might have shrieked a little as I leapt away; my back slammed into a metal rack and dented it, but I barely noticed. I was too busy using my magical, life-saving coat to swat at the blazing bits as they burrowed into my worn-out jeans like scarabs seeking flesh.

  Meanwhile, Petra matter-of-factly picked up her fallen weapon, shoved the butt into her armpit, and began loading it one-handed with unnatural Moroi efficiency.
r />   I felt the first sparks of sharp pain just as I battered the last tenacious ember into submission, my pants smoking stubbornly and worryingly. Remembering there was still a Moroi twenty feet away trying to murder me—and that she only really needed to bother loading one round to do it—I left it at that and got out of the open, taking cover behind the dubious protection of another stack of heavy crates.

  And as she peered past the blinding light of the flare, trying to spot me, I swapped tactics and heaved the nearest box at her.

  A couple hundred pounds of wood and metal plating makes one hell of a vampire-powered projectile. My aim was off—the blazing white flare had left me partially blinded—and Petra dodged at the last moment, but the corner of the crate still caught the side of her head, tearing through her scalp and knocking her down.

  Encouraged by my success and by not having to get closer to her gun or flare supply, I chunked another box at her, forcing her to take cover as it burst open and scattered heavy metal plates everywhere with a resounding clatter.

  As soon as I was certain she’d bunkered down, I gathered up my courage, drew in what shadows I could, and stepped sideways. Popping out of the darkness behind her, I threw myself at Petra’s exposed back.

  I’d forgotten that she wasn't just a vampire.

  She was a Moroi.

  Petra whirled to face me, shotgun at the ready; she’d sensed me coming, maybe even sensed my intent to ambush her before I’d acted on it.

  With me trapped in a relatively narrow aisle, she grinned in satisfaction and pulled the trigger—leaving me nowhere to go but up.

  I leapt to the top of the nearest rack, clawing my way to the top as the dragon roared beneath me, as if angry at my evasion. Petra growled along with it and didn’t even bother trying to shoot me again; she simply pumped the shotgun and belched flames into the shelving beneath me, immolating the containers with flames that rippled eagerly upward.

  In a hot flash of near-panic, I leapt from rack to rack, quickly putting distance between us. Looking down, I noticed the door I’d entered through, only a couple dozen feet away. Maybe I can just leave, and I won’t have to—

  “Oh, no way am I letting you out of here,” Petra called out. I cursed as she moved to cut me off, darting around a idle forklift and getting a line of fire on the doorway. “And even if you did get away, I’d find you again—or maybe I’ll hunt down one of the other people responsible for my sister’s death.”

  Goddamn it. She was going to force this fight, no matter what.

  And since I didn’t fancy being a short-lived bonfire, I was going to have to end it. A defensive fight against her was a fight I was doomed to lose. I had to go on the offensive. Somehow.

  I leapt away again as Petra zeroed in on me; with her ability to sense my emotions, she didn’t need to be able to see me to find me.

  Tearing the lid off a crate of hardened metal plates, I flung one at her like a hundred-pound death Frisbee and stuck my claws through several more. The spinning steel square caught air a few feet away from her and flew wide of the mark, but the Moroi instinctively winced away regardless, shielding her face. In an instant’s puff of smoky darkness, I was next to her, and I stabbed my claws into her gut, the armored vest’s plates barely a hindrance.

  With a grimace, Petra leveled the barrel of her shotgun, but I was already gone, darting past her and almost eviscerating her, opening her side to the air and leaving the white of her ribs gleaming in the flickering firelight. Her face twisting in pain, she wheeled to face me once more. Petra raised a flare with her half-healed arm, but I swatted it from her grasp, sending it flying into the burning depths of the warehouse.

  “Stay STILL, murderer!”

  I staggered, losing my momentum as Petra’s voice raked at me. While she was nowhere near as powerful as Tamara, her words dug into my dead heart nonetheless, holding me up long enough for her to step back and center her iron sights on me.

  Nearly point blank, her weapon roared in triumph and erupted in a torrent of voracious flame.

  I met it with the stack of metal plates stuck on my claws, stifling the blast at the source before it could bloom into an overwhelming cone of fire, and hoping my metallic claws weren’t somehow as flammable as the rest of me.

  “That’s right, murderer.”

  Burning metal cascaded to the floor at our feet like a dazzling white waterfall. I tried to step away as it reached out to me, but Petra’s voice snared me, dragging at my feet.

  “Hear me and despair!” she cried out, her hazel eyes alight and glowing with righteous rage, as her blood dripped onto the concrete with thick wet splats. “How many have you killed, now? How many died by your hands, by those damned teeth and claws?”

  Boom. Boom. I circled her, desperately trying to keep away from the spreading flame as the edges of my vision grew dim, my concentration—and conviction—evaporating as she spoke.

  Boom. “Did they deserve it?” Boom. “Did my sister deserve it?”

  I staggered, dread rising as I felt the heat radiating off of my makeshift shield, trying to keep my coat between me and any wayward, ravenous sparks. In the past, I’d fallen back on my seemingly endless Strigoi rage to push away Moroi influence.

  But how could I be angry about the truth?

  Boom. A belated death knell, ringing for me. Maybe it was for the best.

  Boom, closer and closer.

  The list of my victims grew nearly every month.

  Boom, hotter and hotter.

  Silvia. The nameless man earlier tonight, one of many. Dozens of Aine’s kindred.

  Boom, ringing in my ears.

  Aine was right; I was no saint. I was an executioner.

  Click.

  I lunged forward and decked Petra in the face.

  Introspection was for later.

  The Moroi tumbled, almost passing through one of her own fires. She skidded on her back, trying to fumble more shells into her gun, her teeth cracked and her determined snarl dripping blood.

  Skirting fires, I dropped my blazing plates and caught up to her, kicking her in her injured side before she could load more Dragon’s Breath. The shell tumbled end over end, hit a patch of burning cement, and ignited, making me wince at its violent pyrotechnics.

  Petra tried to drag herself away, struggling reload her gun. I tried to slap the weapon from her hands, but she stubbornly held onto it, fumbling another shell to the floor. I kicked it away from her outstretched hand, sending it skittering under a burning rack half a warehouse away.

  “Just give up,” I growled. “Stay down, goddammit!”

  Petra adamantly shook her head, spitting blood. “No.” She dug another shell from her belt with bloody fingers.

  I reluctantly snapped a kick into her. The force tumbled her across the cement slab floor until she slammed head-first into a stack of wooden pallets, leaving a thick trail of blood the whole way.

  She sat up against them, unsteady, and fumbled clumsily at another cherry-red shotgun shell.

  “Dammit, please don’t make me kill you.” I stalked after her, acutely aware of the warehouse burning down around us.

  “Why?” Petra glared hatefully up at me. The slick shell slipped from her equally red fingers. “It’s what you deserve.” Coughing blood, she reached inside the tactical pouch on her belt.

  I snatched the flare from her and threw it across the warehouse.

  “Besides,” she slurred. “It’s already too late for that. Don’t make me suffer even more, damn you.”

  I went still, listening to the sound of her heartbeat slowing. I could feel her life force wavering, weakening. The shotgun finally fell from her fingers.

  “Just kill me already.”

  The words caught me off guard, the command tipping me past the decision point.

  The next thing I knew, I was pulling my claws out of Petra Blagojevic’s chest.

  With a long sigh, she finally relaxed, most of the rage melting out of her dimming hazel eyes. Her breath rat
tled wetly out of her throat as her heart rate slowed to nearly nothing. I stared at her numbly for a long moment, not knowing how to feel, what to feel.

  As I rose and turned to look for a way out, she spoke again.

  “Ashley Currigan.” The words were thick and wet, but not so quiet I couldn’t make them out over the sounds of feeding flames. I could feel, an electric twinge like a tickle at the base of my skull, as she drew on the last of her innate magic, prolonging her last moments to talk to her killer.

  “Yeah?” I knelt down. The heat and spreading fire raked at my anxiety, but I could stand it a little while longer.

  Besides, it was what I deserved.

  “Heard of you,” the Moroi rasped. “Never thought I’d die hating you.”

  I frowned. “Heard of me? Before all this?” Come to think of it, Tamara’s little sister had recognized me too, but Tamara had been a lot closer to Dani than to Petra and Silvia. “Did Tam tell you about me?”

  Petra chuckled, blood dribbling from her cracked lips. “Oh...not gonna spoil the surprise... Figure it’s gonna hurt.”

  I didn’t have the faintest idea what she meant or what to say in return. So I apologized instead. “I am sorry. About Silvia, about...things coming to this.”

  She shrugged weakly. “Doesn't matter. Don’t care.” She looked up, met my eyes. I almost looked away. “But I do care about...revenge.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  It was unsettling to watch her eyes slowly lose their liquid vitality and grow cold, her gaze locked to mine and almost unblinking. “You’ve met the person responsible for...all of this.”

  “Meladoquiel?” I asked.

  “No,” she responded with a weak cough. “Sure. She took...advantage. Set it up, made it...possible. Convinced both sides. But she...used us. It wasn’t a good idea...kidnapping that DJ girl.”

  I thought about it. “She was trying to get Charles involved.”

  A shallow nod, a shallow breath. “I...think so,” the Moroi wheezed. I felt a residual tingle of static as she kept herself on supernatural life support. “Then...abandoned us. But the idea came from...a Moroi you know. A damn pure blood...who’s not suffering any of the consequences. Yet.” She smiled a broken smile. “Why don’t you...pay her a visit. Maybe you’ll kill each other.” Her smile widened.