stunned to move. I heard the knife clatter. Shambling footsteps. A shadow fell across me. Shit.
Meaty hands closed around my throat, hauled me up by my neck, and slammed me against the wall. My sore back protested. Oxygen rushed from my lungs. My feet kicked a foot above the floor, unable to find purchase. He squeezed. I raised my knee and hit nothing but rock-hard muscle. Slowly, painfully, he was choking me to death. Blood rushed to my head. Dizziness spread. My eyes seemed to bulge, threatening to pop out of their sockets.
His leering face was close to mine. His hot breath stank of rot and death. Lust gleamed in his eyes and pulled his pale lips into a taunting snarl. “I’ll put my wife into you, girl,” he growled. “I look forward to getting to know her again.”
Rage jolted through me. Drawing on the last of my energy, the last of the Break’s spark, I concentrated on the far side of the room, by one of the crates …
… and found myself lying there, gasping for air, sucking oxygen greedily down a bruised and battered throat to the tune of an elf-demon hybrid’s angry snarls. It was a small victory. He’d be on me again in moments. My head spun and ached. My body felt like liquid. I had nothing left with which to fight him.
I watched him come with black blood oozing down his chest, each footstep falling like an anvil. A thudding pattern interrupted by the unexpected—and wonderful—sound of an ammunition clip snapping into place. He stopped, and his oily head snapped toward the dugout room’s only entrance.
A gun roared. The Tainted took a frag round in the center of his forehead. Bone cracked and splintered, and meat shredded. A second shot followed the first, and the back of his head exploded, coating the floor with black and pink gore. I gaped. He continued to stand, a thin trickle of blood dancing down the bridge of his angled nose. Eyes wide, lips parted, stunned.
A third shot caught him in the throat, followed immediately by a fourth that destroyed his neck and severed his head. Body and head dropped to the ground and hit with a sound like spaghetti plopping to a plate—wet and soft and disgusting.
Thank God for the Triads; they’d finally found their way down.
As I gaped, all of the blackness in the dead thing’s blood and body seemed to melt together in a single puddle by its severed neck. As it left, Tovin’s body returned to normal—shrinking and regaining actual color, until all signs of the Tainted were gone.
The black puddle shuddered and swirled like a beached jellyfish, stunned, but far from finished. Right where I never imagined it would be. I fished out the pouch containing Amalie’s spell, loosened the drawstring, and spilled the contents over the squirming Tainted.
White powder dusted down, reeking of mustard and blood and crushed rose petals, and like salt on a slug, the Tainted shriveled into an onyx rock the size of a baseball. And didn’t move.
Footsteps shuffled in my direction. I rolled onto my left side and stared at the black sneakers in front of me. And at the blue jeans above them—not Triad standard for an assault. My savior crouched in front of me, the left sleeve of his shirt stained red.
I swallowed, unable to believe it. Unwilling to give in to the illusion. I was delusional, seeing what I wanted to see, not what was in front of me.
Strong arms wrapped around my waist and drew me up against his chest. A familiar, wonderful heartbeat thrummed steadily against mine. I pushed back so I could see. Brilliant onyx eyes looked down at me over a mouth stretched into a joyous smile. Color flushed his cheeks. Life vibrated from him like a live current.
“Wyatt.” I said the word like a prayer, afraid he would vanish in a puff of smoke.
He nodded. “It’s me.” He stroked my cheek with the tip of his finger. “I don’t know what you did to my chest, but it hurts like hell.”
I started laughing and flung my arms around his neck. He was alive—truly alive and well and in my arms. His scent filled my nostrils; his existence invaded every sense. My chest ached, but it was a sweet ache. The gentle pain of something broken that was on the mend.
His laughter mingled with mine and we held each other. We had wallowed in shit and, against the odds, had come out clean on the other side. Clean, alive, and together.
“Amalie’s magic pouch worked,” I said.
“I see that. What do we do with it now?”
“Nothing. I say we contact Amalie and let her people deal with it. They’re the ones who were supposed to keep this from happening in the first place.”
“I like that plan.”
“So does this mean we get to compare our death experiences?”
He grinned. “Absolutely not. You win, hands down. Although I do know how you feel now, scaring the shit out of people who think you’re dead.”
“Kismet?”
“Tybalt, actually. I never thought a grown man could shriek like a girl.”
I tucked my head beneath his chin, content in a place that, only a week ago, I never thought I’d want to be. “I thought I lost you, and I hated it.”
“I know, Evy, but I think it’s finally over.”
“Not quite.” Over his shoulder, past the contained demon, I spied the six crates. “It isn’t quite done yet.”
I couldn’t bring myself to go back into that laboratory. Seeing those wretched, tortured creatures once was more than enough. Some had been human, most not. But all were living creatures, and they didn’t deserve what Tovin had done to them.
Wyatt and I hung around the Visitors’ Center lobby while Kismet, Baylor, and two other Handlers conferred with their bosses, via cell phone, over the hybrid problem. I kicked at the charred remains of the front desk. Destroying it had knocked down the protection barrier, as I suspected, and allowed the Bloods and Triads to continue their assault on the last of the Halfie forces.
The battle hadn’t lasted long. Tybalt had a few deep lacerations on his thigh from the hound getting too close, but he would live. The Triads had only suffered six deaths—the least of any side. The pavement outside was littered with corpses. The Halfies and Bloods would burn with the morning sun. A bonfire would deal with the rest.
“Evangeline.”
I turned toward the Center’s entrance. Isleen strode toward me, her body armor somehow blood-free, every white hair tucked firmly into place. I was almost sorry I’d hit her in the gut. Her ghostly white face needed a little color.
“You going to try and deck me again?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I am certain you, of all people, understand actions taken in the heat of battle.”
“Kelsa killed your sister.”
“Yes, and while not by my hands, she paid for that crime.”
“And a few others.”
Isleen half turned, as if to go, and paused. Over one shoulder, she said, “I cannot guess where our paths may cross next, Evangeline Stone. I hope it continues to be as allies.”
“Ditto.” I offered my hand. She eyed the dirt and bloodstains and shook it anyway. Her grip was firm, cold, and truthful.
She spared Wyatt a nod and a terse “Truman,” and left. Probably to gather her troops and leave us humans to clean up the carnage.
“Did anyone tell her about the critters downstairs?” Wyatt asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Think she’ll be annoyed at being left out?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you even care right now?”
“Not even a little bit.” Kismet strode past. I took a step toward her and asked, “What will happen to the hybrids?”
“We’ll take them out of here,” she replied. “We have a secure facility south of the city.”
