by Faith Hunter
Page 67
I whirled, seeing the others. Two. Male. Dressed in bellboy uniforms. Each with small, ugly, compact weapons held with professional ease. Firing. The scent of human and vamp blood on the air. No one was behind the bellboys. I emptied my weapon into them, even as one turned toward me. They didn’t go down. Vests. They all were wearing bullet-freaking-resistant vests!
I dropped the Walther. Bullets wouldn’t stop them.
Claws. Jane throwing claws.
I dodged hard right. The first blade left my hand. Flashing in the overhead lights. Imbedded itself in the gunman’s throat. I’d aimed lower but I wasn’t complaining.
My second blade hit the second gunman under his left arm. But the kill shot was Wrassler’s two-tap to the forehead. I landed hard. On my wounded arm. And it was over except for the blood and the screaming and the cops.
I directed the emergency medical personnel to the wounded humans, including Derek, who had taken two nonlethal rounds to the flesh of one shoulder and thigh, and two hotel guests, who had been caught in the crossfire. I sent the cops to the twins who answered the legal questions. And I sat, alone, on a hotel sofa, watching it all with a goofy smile on my face. This was my life. Vamps and guns and getting shot at. My life was crap. And I loved it, now that Beast was back. She wasn’t talking yet, beyond her orders in the fight, but I could feel her claws scrape across my mind, hear her breath panting. She was back, fully and completely, even if she was pouting.
Of course, I’d killed more humans. I’d have to deal with my own responsibility at some point, though these humans had been trying to kill me and the people I was sworn to protect. That helped. Maybe enough to disperse any possible guilt that might later attack. I was getting better at dealing with guilt all the time. But maybe that wasn’t such a good thing. Time would tell.
At some point, the EMTs realized I was bleeding and they treated me, bandaging and haranguing me about needing to be seen at the hospital. A round had grazed the inside of my upper arm, taking a groove of flesh with it on the way past. Ruining my lightweight riding jacket. And my shirt. But not my mood. With Beast back, that was doing great.
Later, I saw Leo and Grégoire into their car and out of the parking lot. And I was done. The job was a success. Except for the lingering question—which blood-master had just declared war on the MOC of New Orleans and the greater Southwestern USA?
