He could have given Rambo a run for his money. He was down to a T-shirt, black pants, and combat boots, but he was outfitted for war: rifle in his hand, gun in a shoulder holster, crossbow slung over his shoulder, a pouch on one hip holding arrows, a pouch on the other hip holding a bundle of gardening stakes. Several more grenades on a bandolier.
He could have blown us all up, but he wanted to do this face-to-face. He wanted to go down to the wire. I could see it in his eyes. Fucking maniac.
Anastasia was speaking. “We killed Valenti; this one here’s as good as dead. You can’t win, Mr. Cabe.”
Cabe fired the rifle. I flinched, simultaneously trying to see what had happened. Bullets couldn’t hurt Anastasia, I wasn’t worried about her, so what had he shot?
Provost slid out of Anastasia’s arms and fell dead. I choked on a shout.
Cabe dropped the rifle and threw something at the vampire, a fast and haphazard pitch. Water splashed from a bottle, like the small bottle of liquid that Valenti had carried. Anastasia was lunging at Cabe when the spray hit her, and she lost her composure. She put up her hands in defense, cringed, slouched away, and didn’t make a sound as the holy water burned like acid on her face and hands.
Next, Cabe swung up his crossbow—already loaded, ready to fire a wood bolt through Anastasia’s heart, now that she was vulnerable.
I leveled my gun; I had him in my sights, squeezed the trigger.
Blood sprayed from Cabe’s thigh. He cried out, staggered, dropped to his knees. The crossbow tumbled from his grip. But he was still alive and going for the stakes at his hip.
Okay, so I really needed to practice with this gun thing some more. Mental note.
Only partially recovered, Anastasia struck at him, more slowly than she should have moved, not at all like her elegant, brutal self, and he stopped her midstride, holding a stake up, gripped with both hands, ready to impale her. She stopped, teeth bared. The tableau paused; then Cabe climbed to his feet. His thigh was a bloody mess. He didn’t seem to notice.
“You!” Cabe shouted, glancing at me. “You fire again and I’ll kill her! I can do it!”
Did the man have no pain receptors? Maybe he didn’t. I emerged from my shelter behind the porch. Lowered the gun, just a little.
“Not good enough!” he said. “Put it down! Drop it!”
Quick mental calculation: if I dropped it, how quickly could I pick it back up again? Could he really stake her before I shot him? Could he stake her before she reacted? The wooden point was a foot from her chest. Anything could happen. Grant stood on the porch, probably making the same calculations I was.
Frozen, I couldn’t make a decision. But my hand opened and I let the gun go.
Cabe jumped toward Anastasia, stake raised, shouting in rage. She braced, preparing a defense, teeth bared, hissing. I dove for the gun, running forward in the same motion.
Grant leapt forward—putting himself in front of Anastasia, protecting her—and grappled with Cabe. It happened too fast; I didn’t see what led to Odysseus Grant falling, holding his bandaged hands to his chest. But I could guess: he’d put himself in front of the stake meant for the vampire. He clutched the length of it sticking from his rib cage. Cabe stood over him, stunned, staring, panting like a wild beast.
I steadied myself, aimed the way I’d been taught, and fired the last of the gun’s shots. Cabe jerked, fell back, and didn’t move again.
The world fell silent, still, my hearing masked with cotton by the sound of those gunshots. I’d killed again—too late, this time.
Anastasia crouched by Grant’s head, held his shoulders, and stared at the stake in his chest with a shocked gaze. Red rashes from the holy water streaked her beautiful face, which was creased with either pain or grief. She hadn’t even looked so distraught when we lost Gemma. Numb, I dropped to my knees beside them, gripped Grant’s wrists, which were braced around the protruding stake, and searched him for life and movement. His eyes were open, looking back at me, and his lips smiled faintly. A time like this, and he smiled.
Tell me what to do, I pleaded silently, meeting his gaze. I had gone feral, Wolf in my eyes, in my senses, unable to form words.
“Kitty,” he murmured, coughed, and I squeezed tighter, urging him to lie back, not to struggle. But he never listened to me. “It’s a trance—tell them.”
He coughed, and blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Air bubbled in the blood around the wound at his chest.
“Odysseus,” Anastasia breathed.
“Slows heart rate. Blood pressure.” Another cough, with more red foam sliding down his chin. “Not dead. Tell them.”
He met my gaze, nodded once, then closed his eyes. Laid his head back, almost in Anastasia’s lap. His breathing slowed, then slowed again. My hands were on his wrists, I felt his pulse, I heard his heart—it also slowed. Dimmed.
“No,” I murmured, my voice finally unsticking. “No, Grant, no, no—”
Anastasia squeezed my shoulder, and I looked at her with round eyes, wolfish. My throat was tight, preparing to howl.
“Kitty,” she said, her voice low. “He knows what he’s doing. A trance, so he won’t bleed out. He’s saving himself.”
If anyone could do such a thing, it would be Grant. I shook my head. “It won’t do any good—we’re still stuck here. He needs an ambulance now, Tina needs an ambulance—”
Anastasia went to Cabe’s body and started searching it. “One of them has to have a satellite phone—they had to have a way of calling out.”
I couldn’t do anything else for Grant; I couldn’t find a pulse and assumed he was unconscious. He didn’t smell dead. So I went inside to check on Tina.
She’d managed to
