“Not that I wasn’t enjoying the view,” he said, “but judging by the state of your nipples, you must be freezing.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said dryly, pulling the sodden material over my head. It hung on me, but it did make me feel a bit better not to be flashing my tits at the whole world. “You might want to stop appreciating the view, by the way—it’ll distract me if I have to filter you out. Think of baseball statistics or something.”
“I’d rather not,” he said, still eyeing me oddly. “Why in god’s name would you think I follow baseball?”
“Cricket statistics, then?” I replied with some asperity. “Just think unsexy thoughts, please.”
He muttered something under his breath, but then another near miss from Myrial’s blade had both of us thoroughly focused on the fight once more. I hadn’t been kidding—I really didn’t know how to even start with something like this. To date, I’d only ever grabbed animus trails that were already out in the open. For lack of any better ideas, I closed my eyes and tried to remember every last nuance of the time Myrial had drained me in her attempt to stop me getting through the gate between Hell and Earth.
I’d felt the attack like a tug at my magical center. Myrial must have reached inside me somehow to grasp my energy and pull it out. I opened my eyes and tried to focus on her lower abdomen, where succubus energy seemed to be centered. She was moving around too much, though—I couldn’t maintain my focus with her ducking and whirling so fast.
Instead, I closed my eyes again and tried to reach out with my other senses. This had worked pretty well on occasions when I was feeding; I could usually picture the animus trails behind my eyelids, even ones that weren’t directed at me. I doubted there would be any trails here, as such. Full-blooded demons wouldn’t go around letting hard-won energy leak out of them for anyone to pick up and use. It would be barricaded inside them somehow.
After a few seconds of concentration, I became aware of two reservoirs of glowing magical energy spinning and wheeling madly as the demons fought each other. Rans was a familiar presence at my side. His energy was mostly contained, as I’d asked—warm even though his flesh was cool. I directed my focus away from him and toward the unfamiliar energies.
One was cool and cerebral, but felt oddly depleted. Nigellus, I decided. The other was hot, almost molten... full of anger and passion.
Bingo.
I tried to reach for it, but it felt very far away. It was like reaching for an object that wasn’t where you expected it to be, your fingers closing around nothing. I shook my head sharply. No. It was right there. I just wasn’t used to having to work so hard to grasp animus—that was all.
I’d sucked ten strong men dry, not ten minutes ago. I could do this, damn it.
The invisible barrier that kept me from grasping what I wanted couldn’t be impenetrable. Myrial fed from other people just like I did. There had to be a way in.
A strong hand steadied me, resting on my lower back, and I realized I was swaying in place.
“Almost there,” I grated, keeping my eyes closed as I fumbled around Myrial’s magical barriers, seeking.
Metal clashed against metal with startling force, and suddenly I was inside—Myrial’s moment of surprise as Nigellus briefly gained the upper hand giving me the distraction I needed when her guard dropped for the barest of instants. I pictured her energy unspooling toward me as the cops’ energy had done, and felt her smooth movements falter under my assault.
“Something’s happening,” Rans murmured near my ear. “Keep going.”
I had every intention of doing just that. Unfortunately, a second later I heard Myrial’s enraged shout, and a vicious yank against my magical core nearly sent me to my knees. It was the same feeling as when she’d drained me at the gate, and panic clawed at me as I realized the connection flowed both ways.
The bitch was trying to turn the tables on me.
“Zorah,” Rans said sharply, his hand still supporting me.
“She’s fighting back!” I snapped. A flash of lightning split the sky. I slithered to my knees in the mud, not wanting to split my attention between the unexpected tug-of-war with Myrial and the complexity of standing upright. “I need her distracted again!”
I mentally dug my heels in, picturing the energy connection as a physical rope that I could pull on. Rans cursed under his breath. My eyes blinked open again as he sprang toward the clashing figures, salt dagger in hand.
The rainwater blurred my vision. I blinked my eyes clear as best I could, needing to see what was happening even though I knew it was a bad idea to split my attention between my eyes and my magic.
Rans slammed into Myrial, only to be thrown off violently. He dissipated into vapor an instant before her battle scythe would have sliced him open from neck to belly, and I cried out in dismay at the near miss.
Myrial snarled, the sound feral. My control of the connection between us slipped, some of my animus sliding away from my grip. With a curse, I redoubled my efforts. I’d wanted Myrial distracted, but I was the one in danger of being distracted now with Rans in the line of fire.
A horrific gash decorated Nigellus’ chest where Myrial’s blade had caught him at some point, but the demon of fate wasted no time in pressing his attack—taking advantage of Rans’ entry into the fight. He slashed and parried relentlessly, heedless of the fresh slices from Myrial’s crackling blade whenever he got too close to her.
Rans darted in and out, solidifying for the space of a heartbeat and attacking, only to dematerialize into mist again before Myrial could gut him. Her wings were as much weapons as her scythe, battering him whenever he tried to pincer her between his attack and Nigellus’ fiery blade.
Meanwhile... I pulled. I gritted my teeth and clamped my jaw, trying not to focus on how obviously in over my head I was. I sure as hell wasn’t winning our tug-of-war. I wasn’t even sure I was holding my own. The fear that my gambit might somehow end up strengthening Myrial rather than weakening her kept me fighting—even though every muscle in my body quivered like I’d just run a marathon.
I didn’t have to win, I told myself. I just had to keep her occupied on a third front. With all three of us ganging up on her, someone would eventually get in a lucky strike. At least, someone had damned well better get in a lucky strike, because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep this up—
Nigellus lunged, ignoring the bite of Myrial’s blade as it impaled his side. He grabbed the handle a few inches above the place where the point pierced him, and my stomach rolled as I realized he was using his body to trap her weapon long enough to give Rans an opening. I pulled and scrabbled and clawed at her animus with every bit of strength I had left, trying to do my part. A dark form coalesced from the rain, dagger raised, and plunged it into Myrial’s heart.
The demon screamed, tossing Rans away with her free arm as though he were a rag doll rather than a powerful, centuries-old vampire. He rolled and sprung to his feet, claw marks from her talons scoring his bare back. At the same instant, Nigellus ripped himself free of her blade and brought his own down, slashing her torso open.
The two demons staggered apart, reeling, until the three combatants formed an uneven triangle. I slammed my magical barriers into place, snapping the connection with Myrial before she could pull anything more from me to help heal her wounds. The succubus fell to one knee, bracing herself upright with the scythe’s long handle as she scrabbled one-handed at her chest.
She was tearing at the place where Rans had stabbed her with my dagger, I realized—and it said something that she seemed to be way more bothered by that injury than by the fact that her guts had been opened up and promptly cauterized by a flaming magical sword.
Nigellus was still upright despite his many wounds... barely. He shot Rans an unfathomable look as the vampire returned to me. The rain was easing, and I tried to keep my stomach contents in place as I got a better look at Rans’ back. Jesus. She’d scored him right down to the bone with her hooked claws.
As ever, Rans acted like the horrific injury was nothing more than a hangnail. After raking me with his eyes to ensure I wasn’t physically hurt, he tossed the handle of the salt dagger in the air and caught it. My eyes widened. The blade had snapped off, perhaps weakened by the places where the rain had dissolved the salt.
Suddenly, Myrial’s attempts to claw at the small entrance wound the dagger had left made sense. The blade was still buried in her heart, salt and all. A slow smile crept across my face. I had the feeling it was not a very nice expression.
“Oh, dear,” I drawled. “Looks like I’ll need to go back to the drawing board with that dagger design. Clearly it doesn’t stand up to hard use.”
“Hmm,” Rans hummed in agreement. “Shoddy materials, apparently. Pity—I bet that broken blade’s going to be a royal bitch to pull out, with no handle attached.”
He reached down with his free hand and I let him pull me up, hoping my legs would be up to the task of supporting my weight. Myrial, meanwhile, had collapsed to both knees, curling around the injury Rans had inflicted. Nigellus tossed away his flaming sword, which disappeared the instant it left his grip. A sweep of his hand banished the gaping wounds decorating his body, and an instant later, all that otherworldly power folded in on itself, leaving him standing before us in his human form.
Only his glowing, fiery eyes spoke of the creature that lurked beneath.
“Leave this place, Myrial,” he said. “As you can see, all of your scheming has been for nothing. Return to Hell, and to whatever fresh lies you wish to spin for the Council. I’ll be along to refute them shortly.”
Damn. I might’ve still been pissed at Nigellus for being a backstabbing asshole, but even I had to admit that the man had cold dismissal down to an art form. Honestly, I might’ve been tempted to throw in an insult or two of my own, if I weren’t so worried about falling over from exhaustion.
Myrial sneered up at us from her hunched position on the ground, her expression radiating hatred. “Oh, I’ll leave, turncoat,” she said, her voice grating like rusty nails. “Still—if I’m to recover my strength, I believe I might just have to cash in some of my chips.” The sneer turned into a rictus grin, and she tossed a final few words at us before popping out of existence. “Perhaps it’s finally time to reap the vampire’s pet bean-counter. That seems agreeably apt at this point.”
I frowned at the space where Myrial had been, trying to untangle her cryptic words. Rans’ sharp, indrawn breath drew my attention, even as his hand clutched convulsively at my upper arm where he was still steadying me.
“Guthrie,” he breathed. The single word was filled with the pain of denial.
A bitter chill ran through me at his tone, as I abruptly realized which demon the soft-spoken businessman must have bartered his soul to, more than half a century ago. And now, she intended to reap him.
Oh, shit.
NINETEEN
“WE HAVE TO DO something,” I said desperately. “Nigellus—surely it’s worse for the treaty if Myrial actually reaps Guthrie’s soul, rather than just quietly maintaining an illegal demon-bond with him!”
But Nigellus seemed focused on Rans rather than me as he answered. “Perhaps so. It’s not my bond to control, however. I have no sway over what Myrial does with a life she successfully bartered for.”
“Damn it, Nigellus,” Rans said, his voice a bare rasp.
But the demon only raised an eyebrow. “Should she attempt to reap him, there’s only one course of action with any hope of holding his soul to this plane. You know that as well as I do, Ransley.”
I looked back and forth between them, trying to keep up. Then I shook my head sharply, breaking free of the standoff. “Then whatever it is, we need to do it!” I snapped. “He could be dying right now!”
Rans hesitated, and I couldn’t understand the conflicted look in his eyes.
“All right,” he said finally. “God help me, I’ll do it. Though if it works—and it may not—he’ll not thank me for it. Get us there, Nigellus. Fast.”
Before I could open my mouth to ask what the hell Rans was talking about, the demon grasped both of us and we were hurtling through the void. I staggered when reality coalesced into a view of Guthrie’s tastefully decorated living room. It was dark in St. Louis; we were a couple of hours behind California, thanks to the multiple time zones we’d just hopped. The only illumination in the apartment came from the twinkling lights of the city beyond, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling window.
“Guthrie!” I shouted, not caring if this might somehow be a false alarm. If the man came stomping out, demanding to know why we’d broken into his apartment and started yelling like idiots, I’d be thrilled beyond belief.
There was no answer.
“What if he’s not here?” I asked—chilled by the thought that Guthrie might be anywhere in the world right now, and hopelessly out of our reach.
“He’s here,” Rans said grimly, already on the move. “In his bedroom... having a heart attack.”
My stomach dipped. Nigellus and I followed Rans deeper into the penthouse suite at a run. The door to Guthrie’s spacious master bedroom was open, a single bedside lamp illuminating a small circle of light. Rans didn’t slow, sliding to his knees beside the figure lying in shadow on the floor. I paused only long enough to flip on the overhead light. A small noise escaped my throat at the scene it revealed.
Guthrie lay on his back, his body twitching convulsively. A book lay splayed open on the floor beside the bed, as though he’d been reading when Myrial reached out her power to reap him. One of his hands lay curled over the center of his chest, the base of his fingernails an odd bluish-gray color.
My eyes flew to his face. His eyes were closed, and his full lips held the same unnatural grayish tinge. As I watched in horror, his body stilled, only for his chest to rise and fall in an odd, un-syncopated rhythm that dragged irregular gurgling breaths past his parted lips.
Nigellus had stopped in the doorway, also looking down at the prone figure. He lifted an eyebrow.
“Perhaps it is not too late. Foolish of Myrial to choose a method of death based on its cruelty rather than its efficiency,” the demon observed. “A simple brain aneurysm, and she could have ensured the deed would be done before anyone could interfere.”
Rans looked up at his longtime mentor, blue eyes burning. “You realize that if I do this, it will make him a target for the Fae’s weapon. And Myrial could still take him an hour from now, or a day, or a year.”
A hint of what Rans was proposing finally penetrated my hazy brain, and I sucked in a sharp breath. Nigellus merely shrugged, his gaze never moving from the downed man.
“You have a choice between letting him go, or gambling on an uncertain future,” Nigellus said. “It’s either a slim chance, or no chance at all. As you well know, I cannot interfere with events while he remains human. The decision is yours, Ransley.”
Rans looked like he’d been kicked in the gut. His gaze moved from Nigellus back to Guthrie, and finally to me. I swallowed harshly.
“He’s your friend,” I rasped. “If there’s a chance to save him, you have to try.”
Rans’ gaze hardened. “Then I need you to perform chest compressions. Don’t worry about breaking his ribs. Don’t worry about anything. If he dies, he won’t be in a position to care, and if he doesn’t, his injuries won’t matter.”
I fought down panic at the idea of being responsible for keeping Guthrie’s heart beating, but Rans was right. He was dying before our eyes. Nothing I might accidentally do while trying to keep his blood moving through his veins could be worse that what would happen if I refused to make the attempt at all. I crashed to my knees on Guthrie’s other side and tried to remember every last bit of instruction from the high school first aid class I’d taken a decade ago.
Positioning my hands one over the other, low on his sternum, I put my weight into it and tried to flatten Guthrie’s ribcage right into the floor with each sharp push.
Two... two... three... four... five...
Three... two... three... four... five...
“What about... mouth-to-mouth?” I gasped around the compressions, not sure I’d have enough strength to keep doing this and also breathe for both of us.
But Rans only shook his head. He was up, pulling pillows and bedding from the bed. “Don’t bother. It won’t help. I just need his blood flowing.”
“You’re going to... turn him into... a vampire,” I managed, not bothering to make it a question. Something in Guthrie’s ribcage crunched ominously beneath my hands and I flinched hard, forcing myself not to break my rhythm.
Rans’ agonized expression as he stuffed the mass of bedding under Guthrie’s legs to elevate them was reply enough. I’d never stopped to wonder before why the last vampire on Earth hadn’t tried to repopulate his race during the two-hundred-plus years since the end of the war, but now I had my answer.
It was his fear of the unknown Fae weapon. Fear that he’d be turning someone he cared about, only to watch them be killed once the Fae discovered that a new vampire had been brought into being. Rans didn’t want to do this... but he couldn’t bear to lose Guthrie to Myrial by standing by and doing nothing.
Another rib cracked, Guthrie’s bones grinding alarmingly under my clenched hands. My vision swam and I gritted my teeth, determined not to lose my shit until this was done, one way or another.
Rans lowered himself onto his stomach, and my eyes slid away from his half-healed back. Injuries from demon claws must be harder to repair, I supposed. Otherwise, he’d already be good as new. He rolled Guthrie’s head to the side—the positioning awkward but unavoidable. The chest compressions I was performing wouldn’t be effective if we moved him to the springy mattress, and Guthrie had to be lying flat with his legs elevated for there to be any chance of enough blood getting to his jugular for Rans to drain him.
Of course, I was working mostly off book and movie lore when it came to assumptions about turning someone into a vampire, but at least part of it was confirmed when Rans’ fangs slid into Guthrie’s throat and he started swallowing.
The Last Vampire- Complete series Box Set Page 67