One by one the shapechangers dove into the gap, until I alone stood by the edge. I sat on the filthy floor, swinging my legs into the hole, lowered myself, shortening the distance as much as I could, and dropped down. The hard shock of landing on the stone floor resonated into my feet and died.
Nobody waited for me. The shapechangers had departed. How nice.
Ahead, a long tunnel, narrow and dark, offered a faint glow. Behind me the remains of an underground garage stretched into the distance. I turned to the tunnel and trotted down, careful to leap over the concrete boulders littering the floor.
The tunnel ended, opening into a large room, of which I could see very little since a gathering of furry, muscled backs blocked my view. The warm glow came from the torches, thrust into rungs in the walls. They burned with smokeless white fire that had to be magic. The ceiling rose impossibly high, decorated with plaster molded into ornamental design. The floor may have been parquet at one point:
Some sort of banquet hall.
A woman spoke, her voice harsh and laced with metal. "Welcome to the end of your journey, half-breed. Here you will die like the rest of your kind."
A half-breed? What an odd thing to call a shapechanger. I moved to Jennifer's side and saw the Master of the Dead. Or rather, the Mistress. She stood in the center of the room, straight and rigid as a mast, wearing a flowing dress that started off-white around her shoulders, transmuting into blue around her waist, darkening to a deeper purple and finally blazing blood red at the hem. Her hair, long and glossy black, was knotted into a complex plait and tied with long stringy twine. A cascade of small plastic beads hung from the twine. I looked closely. On second look, they probably weren't plastic. Few people made plastic beads in the shape of human finger bones.
I felt no power emanating from her. No shadow, no hint, nothing, except her age. She felt older than Nataraja.
"I am Olathe," she said with the same gravity Greek gods must have used to introduce themselves to their mortal children. "The Mistress of the Dead. The favored concubine of Roland, the Father of the People."
Alrighty then.
"Care to repeat that?" Curran said. His voice was a deep snarl, but his diction was perfect. "I missed the part where I was supposed to be impressed."
Olathe looked down on him. Not easy to do considering he was nearly two feet taller than her. She may have been Roland's concubine but it had cost her: once probably beautiful, she looked worn-out, like an old manikin whose grimy paint had begun to peel. He had drained all of her vivacity, her spark, her humor. Only the eyes remained alive on the soulless face: huge, prideful, and driven.
Something shifted behind her in the shadows of the far wall. A twisted silhouette, then another, and another. I reached toward it with my magic, felt the cold wall of her defenses, and withdrew. No need to provoke her before Curran was ready.
"I'm curious, how long did he fuck you?" Curran strode forward, one enormous foot padding after another. The shapechangers followed him. "How long did you last? A year? Six months?"
"Thirteen years," she said.
Curran kept moving forward. The longer he kept talking, the closer to her we would get. He was going out of his way to be offensive, although for him it didn't take much effort. "Thirteen years. Finally grew bored with you, didn't he? Found somebody younger, prettier, fresher. And now you're here, hiding in some shit hole, forgotten and discarded, like a used rubber. Nothing to show for all those years."
She reeled back. "I've held his body in mine. I've tasted his flesh and he passed a blessing of power onto me."
Technically that would be true. If they had shared body liquids, she would have gained some of his power.
"A blessing of power," Curran laughed, the echoes of his snarls scattering to the walls. "How about a child?"
She did not answer.
"Oh, wait." Curran paused. "I forgot. The Father of the People is too afraid to make a child of his blood. Or maybe he found you lacking in power?"
She laughed. The loud hollow sound ricocheted from the walls, seemingly coming from everywhere. "Oh, no, half-breed. Power is something I do not lack."
Her defenses dropped. I felt the shadows behind her, the enraged, ravenous vampires, younger than the one I had beheaded, but formidable all the same. Evil magic clung to them, like a rotting mantle, fueling their frenzy.
She spoke a single harsh word, and the phantoms behind her burst from the shadows, reeking of undeath and hungry for blood.
The shapechangers broke away into a loose fighting formation, leaving me in the middle of the floor. Curran's talking had gained us about twenty feet, and the vampires' charge came with astonishing speed. I hit the ground. The first vamp sailed over me.
I rolled onto my back. Another vamp leaped over me. My blade slid into the flesh of its withdrawn gut. A black gush of its blood drenched the floor an inch away from my head. The vamp aimed for Curran, oblivious to the wound. The Beast Lord roared. Happy hunting.
I leaped to my feet and launched myself toward Olathe. She spun, a small sickle knife in her hand. The curved blade slit her forearm. The power of her blood slammed into me, and I rocked back, dizzy. She whirled, her hair flying, her eyes wild and bulging. The blood from the cut sprayed around her, falling to the ground in a wide circle. The red drops ignited, and a wall of carmine flames rushed upward, enclosing her in a protective circle of magic. A blood ward. The only way to penetrate it was with the blood of a relative or with overpowering magic. Shit.
A vampire hit me from the side. It clung to me, jaws snapping as we skidded across the floor. Pain shot through my stomach. Not again! The magic inside me boiled. I grabbed Slayer's blade with my hand, oblivious to the icy burn, and jammed it into the pale dead eye. Slayer hissed, triumphant. The vamp crashed to the floor and thrashed, dying. I kicked myself free.
Another monster rushed at me. I sidestepped, lunged, and grazed its neck with Slayer's tip. The vamp spun around and buried its claws in my thigh. I rammed my saber into its throat, severing the arteries and slicing through the bones of the neck. The vamp's mouth hung open, spewing blood. My kick hammered into its leg. The bone snapped with a crunch. The vamp dropped on its gut, flailing. I jerked my sword free and went looking for Olathe. Behind me the last spark of the vamp's magic dissipated into thin air.
A third bloodsucker leaped, horrid mouth gaping open.
My blade cut into its chest, sliding smoothly between its ribs into the bulging sack of its heart and out again before the twisted body hit the ground. I kept walking.
The hall was drenched in blood. The shapechangers fought in pairs, their movements coordinated with military precision. In a corner two furry bodies were down, with Curran standing over them, beset by three bloodsuckers at once.
I saw Jennifer and someone spotted like a leopard battling back to back, pressed by four vampires. She dropped and kicked the first one, her claws ripping into its side, wrenching free the bloody shard of a rib. Her partner fell onto the bloodsucker, tearing into its neck. More vamps swarmed on top of them.
Nobody paid me any mind. In the battle of monsters, I was just a human. I kept moving.
The east wall shuddered. Dusty plaster exploded, scattering across the floor and something huge charged through the gaping hole, roaring like a tornado. It hit the clump of the vampires with awesome force. An undead body flew through the air, slamming against the wall. The vampire twisted on reptilian feet and leaped back. A colossal paw swept it from midflight, snapping the spine like a dry twig. The Bear of Atlanta had arrived.
Olathe's blood wall shimmered before me. She stood within the barrier, watching the slaughter. The blood from her forearm slid onto her fingers, dripping to stain her dress. She looked at me and smiled. What the fuck was she so happy about?
She kept grinning, her face bright with sick glee.
"You like blood?" I snarled. "I'll show you blood."
Slayer's blade slit my arm and across the hall the bloodsuckers paused for a single be
ating of my heart. They knew the blood, knew whose power flowed through my veins. They stood still, mesmerized, paying homage to the magic, and then slashed back into their victims.
I thrust my bloody arm into the red fire. It seared me and solidified, cracking like a fractured windshield. The smile bled from Olathe's face. The carmine fire shattered. A myriad of tiny flames fell at my feet. I leaped into the circle and thrust.
Olathe made no move to counter my sword. It sliced into her stomach with a wet sucking noise. I dragged it upward, cutting through the intestines, cleaving the liver. She sagged forward on the blade, and in her eyes I saw the satisfaction of recognition. She knew my blood, too.
I jerked the blade free and let her fall. She sagged to the filthy floor and lay on her back, drawing hoarse short breaths. A dark stain blossomed on her dress above her navel and spread through the fabric. She possessed an unnatural vitality, but soon the magic that sustained her would dissipate. She expelled it from her body with every labored breath.
I watched the blood stain grow. My anger died. I was tired. My thigh hurt and my stomach felt like someone had taken a red-hot rake to it.
The bloodfire had surged anew after I had passed through it. It would burn until the last of Olathe's blood dried or decomposed, and the banquet hall shimmered red past the translucent wall of ruby flames. It was almost over.
I rolled my head back, cracking my neck, and saw why Olathe had been grinning.
The ceiling teemed with vampires.
Dozens of them, nude, twisted, wriggling obscenely against each other, packed tighter than sardines in a can. They covered the plaster completely, like a medieval painting of hell that had somehow sprung to life, and more were coming, squirming one by one through a dark hole in a corner.
How many? Forty? Fifty? A hundred? How many of them were pre-Shift, pre-magic? I tried to feel and was swamped in the wave of icy hate. At least twenty.
The undead blanket writhed. A sweet surprise Olathe probably planned to spring on us when we thought we had won. Except that in a moment she would die, releasing all of them from her control, leaving them to blood frenzy.
A horde of ravenous undead left to their own bloodlust. We would all die here. Curran, Mahon, Jennifer. Me. And death would spread, when the undead monstrosities burst into the streets after they finished us off.
Across the room Curran tore a vampire in a half, throwing the mangled pieces to the floor.
Dozens of now peacefully sleeping people would perish. They would see their children torn to pieces while they screamed.
I dropped to my knees and cleaved Olathe's chest. The flesh and cartilage parted before the blade and I pulled her rib cage open like a bear trap. She hissed at me. I reached into her chest and grasped her heart, forging a link between us. Through her blood I felt the multitude of vampire minds, drowning in their own madness.
That's the wrong way, my father's voice said from my memory. Don't give in to this.
There is no right way.
I cut my arm deeper, letting my blood mingle with Olathe's, slowly gaining control. She shuddered, her heels kicking the floor. If I let her die, turning the vampire horde loose, they would scatter before my mind could fasten on them. I lacked the proper training in piloting the undead, and my only option was to merge our power through the bloodlink, controlling the moment of her death, so when she passed on, fading from the undead's minds, they would find me already there.
She knew what I was doing. Her teeth bared in a feral grimace, but she didn't have the power to resist the blood-link. The magic of my blood overwhelmed hers. My power spread, flooding the vampiric minds. Clenching my teeth, I squeezed, crushing her heart and her life with it. Power exploded in my fist, forcing me to my feet.
Olathe jerked. Her eyes rolled back into her skull and the full weight of the horde settled upon me.
The room shuddered. Too many. There were too many.
A fiery band enclosed my chest, engulfed my throat, my head, and compressed, crushing me. I stumbled. My knees quivered. My mouth hung open. I couldn't breathe. There wasn't enough air.
I knew I hadn't gotten them all, despite the bloodlink.
Through the hammer of their minds I could feel individual stragglers, drowning in bloodlust. I sent the horde against them. The ceiling churned with bodies tearing into each other. A chunk of plaster broke off and plummeted to the floor, breaking into dust two feet away from me. The bloodflames blocked the sound from the rest of the room.
My arms held wide, trying to balance, I looked through the eyes of the vampires and saw a long crack in the plaster. Thank you, God.
The ceiling quivered as dozens of talons ripped into it.
Dimly I saw Jennifer through the shimmering wall of the flames. My lips shaped a word.
"Go."
She stared at me, unable to hear through the bloodwall.
"Go."
Suddenly Curran was beside her. He said something, but I couldn't hear.
"Go. Now. Go."
He thrust his hand into the fire and leaped back, his fur melted, his skin red with future blisters.
Another chunk of plaster crashed to the ground outside the circle. To me it made no sound, but they heard the dull thud, jumped, and looked at the ceiling. Jennifer cringed like a whipped dog.
Curran stared at me.
"Go now. Go. Go."
He understood. His clawed hand grasped Jennifer's shoulder and pushed her back. The she-wolf hesitated for a moment and ran.
My sight faded completely. The beating of my heart filled my ears like a tolling of a great bell. I couldn't feel my body, as if it no longer existed. Blind and deaf, I remained in the middle of nothing, swaying, while above me the undead brought the ceiling down. They dug through the plaster and cement to the framework of steel support beams, holding the five stories of concrete above us. Thin arms grasped the beams and pulled with supernatural strength.
God. I haven't been very good.
The metal whined in protest.
I could have tried harder. I could've been a better person. I stand before you now as I am. I make no excuses.
The beams gave, bending.
Please, have mercy on me, Lord.
In my mind's eye I saw the enormous beams breaking. I saw tons of plaster, cement, and steel falling down, onto vampires, onto me, burying us beneath the rubble, sealing a tomb from which not even a vampire could get out.
I felt their hate-filled hungry minds vanishing one by one. Finally I could let go. I released the awful burden and the awareness left me.
CHAPTER 7
SLAYER LAY IN ITS SHEATH ACROSS A NIGHT TABLE, next to a man reading an ancient paperback. On the cover of the book a man in a brown suit and fedora held an unconscious blonde in a white dress. I tried to focus on the title but the white letters blurred.
The man reading the book wore blue scrubs. He had cut the pantlegs midway down his thighs, and faded blue jeans showed below the blue fabric. I crooked my neck so I could see his feet. Big heavy work boots caught the jeans.
I leaned back onto the pillow. My father had been right: there was Heaven and it was in the South.
The man lowered the book and glanced at me. Of average height and stocky, he had dark skin, glossy with an ebony sheen, and graying black hair, cut military style. The eyes peering at me through the thin-framed glasses were at once intelligent and brimming with humor as if someone had just told him an off-color joke and he was trying his best not to laugh.
"Lovely morning, isn't it?" he said, the unmistakable harmonies of coastal Georgia vibrating in his voice.
"Shouldn't it be 'aint it'?" I said. My voice sounded weak.
"Only if you are an uneducated fool," the man said. "Or if you wish to appear country. And I'm too old to appear anything that I'm not."
He moved by my side and took my wrist in his hands. His lips stirred, counting the heartbeats, then his fingers lightly touched my stomach. Pain lanced through me. I flinched and drew a sharp
breath.
"On a scale from one to ten, how much does it hurt?" he asked, his fingers probing my shoulder.
I grimaced. "About five."
He rolled his eyes. "Lord, help me. I have another hard case on my hands."
He jutted something on a yellow legal pad. We were in a small room, with cream colored walls and a paneled ceiling. Two large windows spilled sunlight onto the floor and light blue sheets covered my legs.
The man put down his pen. "Now, whoever told you, little lady, that you can slap on an r-kit and charge right down the mountain into the battle, needs a good wallop. Anything magic hits it and the damn thing will go screwy on you every time."
"Screwy," I said. "Is that a medical term?"
"Of course. Follow the finger with your eyes, please. No turning the head now."
He moved his left index finger around and I followed it with my eyes.
"Very good," he said. "Count backward from twenty five."
I did and he nodded, satisfied.
"It appears, mind you, only appears, that you've avoided a concussion."
"Who are you?"
"You may call me Dr. Doolittle," he said. "I've sailed through the night and day, in and out of weeks, to where the wild things are and now I'm their private physician."
"That was Max." The pain twisted my hip and I groaned. "Not Dr. Doolittle."
"Ah," he said, "what a pleasure to meet an educated mind."
I stared at him for a moment, but he just laughed at me with his eyes.
"Where are we?"
"In the Pack keep."
"How did I get here?"
"You were carried."
I felt an urge to rub my forehead and found an IV dangling from my arm.
"Who carried me here?"
"That's an easy one. His Majesty carried you out of the building, then you were slung over Mahon's back and brought to my doorway."
"How did Curran get a hold of me in the first place?"
"From what I understand, he leaped through some sort of a fire, grabbed you, and leaped back out. Which accounts for his third degree burns. Curiously, there are no burns on you. A mangled hip, some severe injuries to the stomach, massive blood loss, but no burns. Now why is that?"
Kate Daniels Book 1 - Magic Bites Page 16
