Deadtown.”

Mab’s expression showed she had no intention of listening to any more of Mack’s monologue. Too late, anyway. Down the block, someone ran over from Clarendon Street, hailing the cab.

“I’m fine,” Mab insisted. “And I’m not letting you proceed without backup. Your roommate seems to have forgotten us.”

It was true. I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Juliet. I hoped she was okay. Most likely she was fine. She hadn’t fed properly in days, and I could see how hunting would distract her. Vampires weren’t what you’d call team players; they were survivors who put their own interests first. Juliet could easily get sidetracked and assume I’d handle my own problems. Like stopping the Reaper.

I stood, and so did Mab. She moved easily, but something haunted her eyes. How much pain was she hiding? If I asked her, she’d deny she hurt at all.

Side by side, we walked down Beacon Street to Clarendon, where we turned right, toward Storrow Drive and the river. The spot I’d marked on the map, the top point of the eihwaz rune, was a block east, just past Berkeley Street. We’d approach the site slowly, looking for places where Myrddin could be hiding, alert for any sign of the Reaper.

Back Street was deserted. To our left, past a narrow strip of grass and trees, cars zipped by on Storrow Drive, but traffic was light. To our right, Beacon Street town houses and apartment buildings showed us their backs. Grand and elegant in front, they were much plainer from this vantage point, crisscrossed with metal fire escapes. Parked cars lined the street and crowded into tight lots. We kept to the shadows, peering into the windows of garages and basements, looking for any sign that the Old Ones might be in residence. Slowly, we made our way east.

We were about to cross Berkeley Street when headlights shone down that road. Probably a car headed to the Storrow Drive on-ramps. I grabbed Mab’s arm, and we ducked into a small parking lot, getting between an SUV and a car. We crouched there, peering through the SUV’s windows, as the beams grew brighter. The car, a taxi, rolled slowly into view. It didn’t accelerate like it was going to get on Storrow Drive. As it crossed Back Street, it drifted to the right—past the on-ramps—and hit a signpost. The overhead STORROW DRIVE EAST sign shuddered. The car halted, kissing the post, its front bumper crumpled.

A drunk taxi driver? Just what we needed stumbling onto the scene when we were trying to stop a serial killer.

I hesitated. Should we go over and make sure the occupants were okay? Find a phone and call 911?

Before I could decide, the taxi’s front passenger door flew open, and a man—at least the silhouette looked like a man from where I crouched—jumped out and ran east on Back Street, away from us. Guess he wasn’t going to pay a drunk driver who crashed the cab.

I started to move from our hiding place, but Mab grabbed my arm and pulled me back. “Wait,” she breathed in my ear.

Across from the taxi, a garage door opened. Four figures streamed out and silently surrounded the car. One pulled open the driver’s door, and then gestured in the direction of the garage. A fifth figure emerged.

Myrddin.

I pulled out my pistol, the one loaded with bronze bullets. Mab’s restraining hand weighed on my arm.

The demi-demon carried a lidded jar. He held it close to his chest, one hand beneath and one on top, keeping the lid in place. He moved swiftly but carefully, gliding across the street like he didn’t want to shake the jar’s contents.

He’d said something about a jar—told someone he didn’t need it—when he’d tried to kill me.

My God. We were witnessing another Reaper murder.

Beside me, Mab moved to stand up. About halfway to her feet, she gasped and pressed a hand to her back. She cursed softly in Welsh. She yanked out her pendant and grasped the bloodstone with her left hand, murmured some words I didn’t catch, and sprang to her feet. When she hurled a blast of energy at Myrddin, it was like Zeus throwing a thunderbolt.

Myrddin didn’t even turn. He clutched the jar to his chest with one hand and flung out the other toward us, palm out like a traffic cop. A pulsing rectangle of energy met the blast and held it back. Sparks skittered against it. The energy streaming from Mab’s hand sputtered, then failed. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed against the car behind us.

Myrddin made a pushing motion in our direction. The shield sped toward us, accelerating as it came. “Get down!” I yelled. I ducked and curled into a ball on the ground, covering my head with my arms and trying to shelter under the SUV. The energy shield blasted into that vehicle and tossed it into the air. The SUV somersaulted over half a dozen other cars and landed on its roof.

I looked behind me, checking for Mab. She motioned that she was all right. She clasped the bloodstone, preparing for another blast.

I leapt to my feet. The hell with tossing energy around. I had a gun.

Shielding myself behind a van, I popped off three bronze bullets in fast succession. All three struck the target, hitting Myrddin once in the shoulder and twice in the back. The jar dropped from his hands, but he swooped and caught it before it hit the ground. As he moved, he changed. His human flesh split open to reveal ash-gray scales. His features twisted into glowing yellow eyes above a tusked snout. Horns shot forth from his head, leathery wings from his back. And he grew in height—ten, fourteen, eighteen feet.

On Storrow Drive, brakes screeched and metal slammed metal.

Myrddin’s demon form still clutched the jar. It looked like a dollhouse toy in the thing’s monstrous hands. The lid had gone askew, and taloned fingers fumbled to straighten it. I fired again, aiming for the jar, but the demon twisted and the bullet gouged its arm instead. Melting demon flesh dripped from the wound.

Protecting the jar with one hand, the Myrddin-demon pointed toward us with the other and roared. The four figures that surrounded the car simultaneously turned our way. I tried to duck out of their sight, but I wasn’t quick enough. They knew where we were. A creature thumped onto the roof of the van directly in front of us. It crouched there, eyes glowing orange, drool hanging in strings from its fangs. Vampire.

One shot knocked him off the car roof. The bullet was bronze, so it wouldn’t slow him down for more than a minute, but it gave me time to draw my dagger and silver-loaded gun. Another vampire landed on the roof of the car behind us, and two more figures stood between us and Back Street. With a brick wall behind us, we were surrounded.

But I still had a gun.

The second vampire sprang at us. I shot him with silver in midair. His arms and legs pinwheeled, and he hit Mab square in the chest, knocking her onto her back. The vampire, squirming with pain, crumpled in a heap on top of her. Mab stabbed him with her silver dagger and strained to push him off her, but he didn’t budge. She was too weak. He reared back his head and sunk his fangs into Mab’s side. I buried my dagger in his neck, half-turning as I did to face the two who rushed us from the street. I nailed the first with a dead-on head shot. He fell, and his buddy tripped over him. I tracked the fall, aiming at his head. He looked up, terror in his eyes. “Please,” he said, “I’m human.”

I recognized this guy—he was one of the vampire junkies who’d grabbed me in the Zone. He’d shown no mercy then, handing me over to Myrddin and the Old Ones for torture and death. Why should I show any now? My gun didn’t waver.

A tremor shook the human and he vomited in the street.

Something hit me from the side, slamming me against a car so hard my head shattered the driver’s side window. Blood streamed into my eyes, blinding me. A hand grabbed my wrist and banged it, over and over, against the side of the car. Bones cracked. I dropped the gun.

A body leaned into me, pinning me against the car. Fingers tangled themselves in my hair and yanked my head forward. I blinked frantically, trying to clear the blood from my eyes. Fetid breath, rank with grave rot, washed over my face. A hand wiped my eyes, and the vampire I’d shot with bronze came into focus. He sniffed at my cheek. Fast as a snake’s, his tongue flicked out to taste my blood. He pulled back, nose wrinkling. “Shapeshifter,” he said with disgust. Vampires won’t drink the blood of weres or shapeshifters. It makes them lose control of their physical forms, turning them into hybrids of other creatures.

The orange eyes narrowed. “I can still rip out your throat.”

“Do not!” thundered a voice. The vampire’s head snapped to the right. Myrddin, again in his human form,

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