We should be running.
Then the memory of Sarina’s voice as she wailed out her premonition tore through my brain.
Blood in the streets. Rivers of it.
“There’s no one we can call, is there?”
One look at Bishop’s face was all I needed to get my answer.
Because the answer was no.
23
I thought there would have been more warning. Even with the wards Jimmy and Bishop put in place, I sort of thought the buzz of a hundred vamp souls would have been louder. Would have called to me like a siren song of impending death. But they were more silent than any grave I’d ever come across.
The first breach came from a single arrow crashing through the pane of one of the stained-glass windows. The spelled arrowhead embedded into the wood of a pew only a few feet from our huddle. The arrow had to be spelled, right? There was no other way it could have sailed through Bishop and Jimmy’s wards, not to mention whatever security the Dubois nest already had in place.
At the first break in the glass, both J and I drew our weapons, the welcome weight of a gun in my hand seeming to slow everything down for me.
“Get back behind the dais,” Magdalena ordered, moving in front of us as she drew an arrow from her own quiver. “Take cover and be prepared to move.”
She then nodded at the vamp who was acting as sentry in front of the tunnel entrance. He gave her a hesitant nod, the reluctance on his face plain as day before pressing a red button on the device in his hand. Getting the majority of their young ones out made Mags so much different from other monarchs—or at least from what I’d heard. In European nests, their young ones were cannon fodder, a way for the old to keep right on trucking through the years without so much as a scratch. Mags didn’t play that way, and it made me like her so much more than I had before.
I couldn’t feel the concussion at first, but the blast soon ricocheted through the whole of the decommissioned church, nearly bending the solid-steel blast doors.
Unlike the rest of us who ducked for cover, Mags was unmoved by the blast. Drawing back her arrow, she aimed for the tiny break in the glass. Letting it fly, it sailed through the small hole like she’d done it a thousand times before. I had to say, the answering scream following the arrow hitting its mark was supremely satisfying.
For that one shining moment, I had hope—a whole boatload of it. Hope that this battle wouldn’t mean the end of a nest I’d put myself in hot water to help. That we would win, and this trouble would soon be behind us. That my friends would all walk away with breath still in their lungs.
Until ten spelled arrows answered Magdalena’s, cutting through one of the side windows, like a knife through butter.
Until one of the arrows found a home in Mag’s stomach.
Until Mag’s scream echoed through the cathedral like an omen of death.
Blood spilled from her wound, but she didn’t go down. Shakily, she grabbed the rune-carved wood, yanking it out. As soon as the arrowhead left her body, Mags went rigid, her back straightening as if someone had pulled the string of her spine.
Ingrid dove for her queen—without armor, without weapons, without anything—ready and willing to drag her to safety. The arrow clattered to the floor right as Ingrid reached Mags, but Ingrid never got the chance to pull Magdalena to safety.
“Get back,” Mags growled, and quick as a whip, her arm shot out, slamming into Ingrid’s small face with the force of a wrecking ball. “Ssstay away from me.”
Magdalena clutched at her own head as Ingrid sailed the few feet toward us, landing hard on the marble floor. Ingrid’s face was a bloody, broken mess as she lay crumpled at our feet. But the tiny general didn’t stay down long. Oh, no, she was up and ready to try to reach her queen again until Jimmy managed to snag her by the middle. Just about the only thing that saved Jimmy’s life were the words that dumped ice water in all our veins.
“There was a… spell on the arrow,” he shouted, struggling with the Dubois enforcer. “Her mind… is not her own.”
Mag’s talons raked at the skin of her face, the regret there the only clue that she was fighting something. That fact was proven not a second later when Mags slowly staggered for the warded doors, her movements sluggish when I knew she could be faster than light if she had a mind for it.
Ingrid fought against Jimmy’s hold as members of the nest raced for Magdalena, trying to prevent her from getting to the doors. As old as she was, there was little hope of them succeeding. Even as she fought her own mind, she still batted them away like gnats.
Magic lit over Bishop’s hands as he stared at Mags. “Someone needs to take her down,” he muttered. “If she opens that door, we’re fucked.”
Ingrid managed to yank herself out of Jimmy’s giant hold and turned her still-healing face to glare up at Bishop, her wounds closing before my eyes. “I suggest you keep that stupid-ass comment to yourself for the rest of your fucking life, Death Boy. Mags might give a shit that your grandmother made her, but I don’t. If you value breathing, I suggest you learn to keep your mouth shut.”
Bishop gestured at the melee in the middle of the cathedral. “And I suggest you jump in there and do something. No one else in this whole fucking nest is as old as you are or has a hope of stopping her. Hop-to, little bunny, before your boss decides to open the flood gates.”
Growling, Ingrid raced through the throng of her nestmates to stop her queen from reaching the door, launching herself onto and off of the edge of a pew, landing a solid haymaker to Magdalena’s temple. Mags swiped at her, but the tiny enforcer was too quick, prepared at last to tangle with her queen. There was a reason Ingrid was the general and Mags was the queen. In the written histories, Ingrid Dubois had not been bested in battle ever, and I seriously doubted she’d break that streak if she could help it.
The sound of glass breaking rent the air over the cacophony of vampires duking it out. Dozens of arrows sailed through the windows. The majority of our little group ducked, trying to avoid losing ourselves in the middle of this shitstorm. But a few vamps weren’t so lucky. One took an arrow right through the chest, her death scream something of nightmares as her body withered before my very eyes, the damage to her heart absolute.
Other than Tabitha, I hadn’t seen the transition from life to death; I hadn’t seen a soul leave a body. The process was startling, her soul remained standing as her body fell away from it, landing on the ground in a heap of ash. Her ghost stared down at the scattered remnants of her corpse, unmoving.
The other two vamps that’d been hit, each ripped out their arrows in tandem as if they had no other choice—the first to his own detriment. His neck wound disabled him quickly as it ripped through his jugular. His friend was another story altogether, his straightened spine and jerky movements matching Mags’ exactly as he lumbered toward the door.
This time, Bishop didn’t ask permission—not that there was anyone to give him any. Instead, he shot a crackling ball of purple magic straight at the vamp. We all watched in wonder as the magic hit its target, the purple spell swarming the vamp as it made him crumple to the floor in a heap. Unlike his nestmate, he did not wither and die. Eyes opened and staring, he remained immobile and unharmed.
“You could have done that to Mags,” I accused, stunned at his power over the vamp. At how much it reminded me of another time when I’d seen this kind of magic.
Bishop gave me a dark chuckle, shaking his head but not meeting my gaze. “Magdalena Dubois is almost three thousand years old. That spell wasn’t going to cut it, and I like my head right where it is, thank you.”
But I didn’t have a frame of reference. I didn’t know how old Bishop was, and the little tidbit about his grandmother making Magdalena did not escape my notice. I had a feeling Bishop wasn’t just old. He was old.
The swarm of Dubois vamps clustered around the door, and I lost sight of Mags and Ingrid. I quickly found them again as ten nest members went flying, the answering screech of their queen
drawing my gaze to the door.
They weren’t going to be able to stop her from opening it. They weren’t going to be able to keep the un-nesteds out.
More arrows sailed through the windows, hitting even more of the Dubois vamps. Bishop volleyed his mojo at the ones he could, but there were just too many. It didn’t matter if there were snipers in the crow’s nests picking them off, and it didn’t matter that this place was warded out the ass. They were coming in whether we liked it or not.
“Fall back,” Hildy ordered. Since his main mission in life—or death—was keeping me alive, I listened.
Following my grandfather through the cathedral halls, he led us to a courtyard. Or rather a graveyard. The small cemetery was surrounded by a fence that was stone on the bottom and wrought iron on top, the four-foot posts topped with sharp-looking arrows. Trees dotted the space, and the graves were carefully maintained, each with a blanket of wildflowers over them. The buzz of souls slid over me like a caress, the sight of shimmering specters lending me just a little hope in the middle of this shit.
It wasn’t until my eyes landed on a group of vamps clawing at the iron bars did that hope die a very quick death. It irked me that I couldn’t feel them. The Dubois nest was filled with an incessant buzzing, their souls practically yelling that they would be living long lives with no end in sight.
Then it dawned on me. What buzzed at me were souls. That sound buffeted me at all times, constantly scratching at my brain. But these arcaners didn’t have a soul to buzz at me. It was why I’d been caught off guard when the arrows flew into the church, why I couldn’t feel them at all.
Fuck.
With each rake of these vamps’ talons, a spark of magic bloomed over the ward like a ripple in water.
“That ward isn’t going to hold,” Sarina said aloud just as I was thinking it.
A man elbowed his way to the front of the vamps. The suited man was familiar, a face I’d seen in the last day or so, but I couldn’t place it. Bishop and Sarina gasped in tandem, their recognition plain as day.
Sandy-blond hair, chiseled jaw, a general frat-boy air about him. Yes, I had met him before. In the records room right before… Right before the ABI had been attacked. Right before Kevin had been killed. Right before those agents had been rounded up and murdered.
His name escaped me, but I remembered his face.
“Smith Easton,” Bishop growled through clenched teeth, magic blooming in earnest over his hands as he lost his hold on his rage. The ground shook a little, as his anger rolled through the graveyard, the sky darkening to pitch in an instant.
Easton shot us an unrepentant grin as he flashed an intricate blade in his fist. Not much longer than my forearm, he made a show of twirling the knife before stabbing it in the shimmering ward, the sharp edge piercing the magic.
He ripped the blade through the spell as if it were nothing, smiling all the while, like a kid on Christmas morning.
The vamps’ talons scrabbled at the edges of the ward like it was a tangible fence, clawing the sides back so they could get in. The sound of screams pierced the air behind us, the thunder of the sky above and feet below ricocheting through us all.
We were surrounded.
Easton swept through the broken ward and sailed over the fence, his crisp suit with nary a speck of dirt on it as he continued to twirl the blade in his hand. The twirl was meant as a taunt, an insult. Like he had all the time in the world, and he was drawing it out for kicks. All the while, I could hear him chuckling, the sound worse than any number of souls buzzing in my brain could ever be.
His gaze unerringly went right for me. Not to the murderous death mage, not to the giant elf, or the famed grave talker. Not to anyone else but me.
“He said you were so smart. He said you’d figure it out in no time. Said you’d come to me. He really did overestimate your abilities, didn’t he?”
24
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Smith Easton was not a man in charge. He was either following orders or trying to break out on his own—just like Tabitha had done.
Easton reached for the knot of his tie, loosening the fabric as he continued twirling that fucking knife, the purple of his magic snaking down the blade. It brought back memories of last year—of Tabitha’s curved blade slicing through my father’s chest. I’d dreamt of that knife more times than I could count. Dreamt of the rapidly cooling blood on my fingers as my father died in my arms.
That blade pissed me the fuck off.
Growling, I raised my weapon, the world seeming to slow with the weight of the gun in my hand. For that solitary moment, the ground ceased to tremble beneath my feet, the wind refused to blow. Time itself slowed to a crawl as I fired off a round, the bullet screaming through the air toward my target. But it didn’t matter how good my aim was or the spell on the round, my bullet failed to hit its mark.
Easton’s spinning blade batted away the round like it was nothing, like he could have done it in his sleep. Seething, I let loose, firing off one round after the other, each one kissing the metal of his knife. He rose a hand in the air, purple magic coating his fingers as he brought it down again. As several of the vamps let out barks of attack, their voices echoed through my bones, letting me know we were really, really screwed.
Easton had control over them all, the purple of his magics giving me a big fucking clue. Blood mage. Easton was a blood mage, and he not only was controlling these vamps, he’d also undoubtedly made them all, too.
“Fuck this shit,” Bishop growled, the ground pitching in earnest as his power raced up his arms. The swirling black and purple magic seemed to have a mind of its own as it snaked all the way up to his neck before flowing from his fingers. Blood and death. That was what Bishop was made of, and he showed it.
Tree roots snapped as the ground broke apart. The edges of coffins rose to the surface as boney fists pounded at the lids. Reanimated corpses punched through the wood, crawling out of their resting places like skittering spiders.
I was not a fan of the zombie craze that had everyone else so enthralled. The absolute last thing I wanted to see when I was trying to relax in front of the TV was more dead bodies. I’d never been an avid horror movie buff either, so the sight of corpses coming to life and busting out of their graves kind of made me want to either run in the other direction, vomit, or both. And this came from a woman who looked at dead bodies for a fucking living.
It wasn’t like I was a stranger to decomposition, but sweet Christ on toast, the smell of maybe fifty dead bodies busting from the earth at once was enough to put anyone off their lunch. Staggering to their feet, bones clacked and popped as they shuffled to their intended target. Vamps spilled through the break in the ward, up and over the fence, clashing with the risen dead.
With my gun useless against Easton, I holstered the weapon and closed my eyes. The very best I could do was call souls to me, after that it was a wag, but I’d work that out when I came to it. I felt the tether of the waiting souls like a physical thing. Each of the shimmering specters moved toward me, the world falling away from us as I beckoned them closer.
If you wish to move on from this world, come to me. I called these words in my mind, begging the souls to fill me with a power I hadn’t felt since my time up at Whisper Lake. Begging these spirits that had tethered themselves to this plane far longer than their bodies had survived.
If not, please fight with us against those soulless monsters that would destroy me and mine. Fight. Please.
What had Hildy told me? All I had to do was picture it in my mind—all I had to do was think it. I wondered if that was the same advice he’d given my mother, or if that was singular to me. It didn’t really matter anymore, now did it.
The first soul that filled me was of a priest that had died a couple of centuries past. His life was one of penance and sacrifice, and he’d died with a flock of parishioners who mourned his passing. The second soul refused to move on, backing away from me as if I were a de
mon. I couldn’t taste her life on my tongue, but gleaned a glimpse of her soul, and given what I saw, she would be on this earth as long as she could cling to it.
Where she was going wasn’t a good place.
The third, fourth, and fifth souls practically raced for me, hitting me with a one-, two-, three-punch of well-lived lives and a much-needed rest. They had lost their way to the other plane sometime in the last fifty years, failing to follow the call of my father’s voice.
In the middle of all this—despite the power filling me, despite the burn in my limbs and chest—I wondered how many souls were out there that were too stubborn to leave, too stubborn to move on. More and more specters flocked to me, tens maybe close to a hundred in this small cemetery, fell into me to their rest, filling me with more power than I could possibly contain.
But it didn’t matter how much power I had, I couldn’t feel the buzzing of a soulless body. Easton and his vampires didn’t have a soul for me to reap—didn’t have a soul for me to call. I had no power over him or them. But I was willing to bet I had enough power over the dead to make a difference.
By the time I opened my eyes, the battle was in full swing. J and Sarina were taking headshots at vamps behind the cover of a solid stone bench. Bishop was tossing magic this way and that, commanding the reanimated bodies of the souls I’d just absorbed. Hildy was spinning up the remaining specters, angering them to the precipice of poltergeists to let loose on the soulless vampires.
But it was Jimmy who really caught my attention. I had no idea where he’d gotten the blade in his hands or where he’d learned how to fight with it, but Jimmy Hanson was no slouch with a broadsword. At six and a half feet of solid muscle, the giant Viking elf covered our six, mowing through vamps like he was born to do it. At his feet were the ashes of the vampires he’d already tangled with, the mounds of it collecting around him like snowdrifts.
Dead and Gone (Grave Talker Book 2) Page 15