Defiance

receding, and Shanks cursed as he grabbed my arm. His eyes were orange lamps. He flung his head back and howled as the change ran over him again, fur crawling fluidly over his skin and his bones crackling as he bulked up.

I tore away from him. Out in the street, as if they were on a stage, Ash and the blond nosferat circled each other. The Broken werwulf moved with supple fluidity, the nosferat with jerky marionette grace. One of them would pause for a half-second, or twitch forward, and the other would counter with a quick movement.

Another wulf cry, this one very close and high up. Probably a rooftop; wulfen like to get some height while hunting. It meant the cavalry was coming up over the hill.

Thank God. I might survive this after all.

Shanks had dropped something with a clatter, two sharp wooden lengths. He’d been carrying malaika. Long, slightly-curved, hawthorn wood swords. Just the thing for killing a perky sucker.

No way. I can’t be this lucky.

Except I could. Because the wulfen were looking out for me.

I was going to kiss Shanks—on the cheek—as soon as I got out of this. My hands closed around the hilts; I scooped them up and let out a short sharp cry. It hit a high soprano note, uncomfortably like a nosferat’s crystalline scream, and if I’d had time to think about it, that might have upset me.

As if he’d read my mind, Ash dropped his shoulders and snaked in for the kill. The nosferat, as if sensing something amiss, actually hopped back like a frog. The malaika spun, sharp oiled wood cleaving air with a low sweet sound, and just before I landed, my left-hand blade sheared through undead flesh.

Well, technically not undead, because they can procreate. But it sounds good.

My feet hit pavement and I spun, right-hand blade flickering out like a snake’s tongue. He was quick, bending back like an impossibly boneless gymnast. I heard Christophe’s voice again.

Faster, but precise. Precision in everything, little bird.

To use malaika, you have to think in circles. More properly, you have to think about the disks the blades make when you spin them. Each blade is curved just a little, a slashing weapon, and they’re supposed to be both shield and weapon.

Traditionally, a svetocha’s weapons.

The nosferat darted in, claws chiming off my right-hand blade. The left sliced down, a pattern unreeling through my arms. You swing from the hip, just like in baseball. Not that I was any good with a bat except in the time-honored sport of home defense. That time with the zombies it’d been a baseball bat before Dad got to the ammo—

The blade bit deep. Hawthorn wood is venomous to nosferat, deadly just like the happy stuff in a svetocha’s blood. I could probably weaken this sucker just by exhaling in his presence, once I bloomed. But right now I was stuck with an unreliable aspect and my speed beginning to flag despite the spur of bloodhunger.

Ash darted in, and his claws flickered as they opened up the nosferat’s belly. The thing screamed, a high thin cry of hatred, and I brought my crossed malaika down. It was a risky move, and Christophe would freak out because I never pulled it off right in practice.

This wasn’t practice. And this one time, I pulled it off. The blades turned into scissors, and they cut deep on both sides of the blond’s throat. The sucker’s cry cut off midway on a gurgle, its head lolling back and dangling from a strip of meat, and caustic black blood sprayed. I skipped back, both malaika still held at the ready. Ash fell back, too, still growling and flanking me. More footsteps, but I knew who they were.

The wulfen flowed down the street, some of them dropping from rooftops. Their lean dark forms spilled between shadows, and their eyes were orange and yellow lamps. They descended on the struggling nosferat, and the wet ripping sounds were enough to fill my throat with bile.

At least it got the sweet copperheat of my own blood off my tongue.

Ash moved closer. He wasn’t growling anymore. The inky textures of his pelt moved as he did, the change rippling through him but not all the way. He still couldn’t turn back into a boy.

On the other hand, Shanks could. He halted just beside me, shaking his head. His dark hair flew, settled into its usual emo-boy fringe across his forehead. “You hit me.”

“Sorry about that.” I didn’t relax, staring at the knot of shaggy forms. They parted, and there was nothing but a jumbled collection of sucker bits, torn Armani, and a lake of black blood. “Really.”

He massaged his jaw, shifting his weight from one long leg to the other. He’d probably bruise, but it wouldn’t stay more than an hour or two. “Yeah, well. Congratulations.”

For what? My arms relaxed a little. The tips of the wooden swords did not touch the ground, though. Christophe was real keen on that. “What?”

“Your first kill, ennit?” His shoulder bumped mine. His chest was narrow and pale under the open corduroy coat, hairless now that he wasn’t under the Change. “And Reynard not around to see it.”

Oh. I didn’t want to think about it that way. My entire body sagged. Using superhuman strength and speed is no picnic sometimes. When you don’t have the aspect to cushion you, things get real sore real quick. And you don’t get the great part of adrenaline dump after a fight, the part where you feel like you’ve kicked the world’s ass.

No, you get the morning after, when you wake up with bruises and pulled muscles in places you didn’t even know you had. “You guys were on sweep?”

“Nah.” He shook his head, subtracting the malaika from me with quick grace. I gave them up without a peep—if he was taking them, it meant the fight was over. The other wulfen slid out of changeform and became boys again, moving into a loose guard ring on the off chance that there were other suckers around. “I just got a few of the boys together. We decided to hang out at a safe distance in case things got interesting. You being bait and all.”

I was so relieved I didn’t even want to throw a fit over everyone thinking I couldn’t handle myself. I twitched like I was going to hug him, but he stepped away.

I tried not to feel disappointed. I probably still smelled angry, and wulfen are cautious about getting physical. PDA isn’t their thing unless it’s rough, careless, or between kin. Instead, I tucked more stray curls behind my ears. “Glad you did. Did you bring Ash, or was it Christophe?”

“Bring him? Nah. Brought himself.” Now Shanks looked amused, one corner of his mouth curling up. “I just figured you didn’t want the door to his room busted again.”

Well, that answered that question. It hadn’t been Christophe at all. “Great.” My shoulders slumped. I felt like I’d fought through both World Wars without a break.

Ash glanced up, a quick canine twist of his narrow head. He was oddly clean, no vampire blood on his fur. He proceeded to slump against me, almost throwing my off my feet. For such a big shaggy being, he was incredibly catlike and precise about placing his paws. And incredibly doglike when it came to leaning and gazing up adoringly.

Nosferat go fast, when they go. This one was just a bubbling mass of stuff that would vaporize into ash when the sun came up. He hadn’t been particularly old, either. Just under a hundred years, if his corpse was reacting like that. All wet rot instead of dry-dusty.

I just killed him. Or I helped kill him, it’s the same thing. The shaking was new. He would’ve killed me. I just killed him first.

I reached down, wrapped my fingers in Ash’s fur. Braced myself. “Jesus.”

“You gonna throw up?” Shanks looked down at me, his lean face shadowed. One corner of his thin mouth quirked up again. He looked just about too pleased with himself. “That’s real common the first time.”

Ash growled, but softly.

Now I was cold. My legs were naked, and the dress didn’t cover much. Sweat on bare skin cooled in the faint night breeze. At least the dress was pretty okay—I hadn’t bled on it.

Much.