Kitty's House of Horrors

Chapter 22

We still had the handgun, but not much else in the way of weapons. Maybe he’d stand still long enough for us to throw tear gas at him. Nothing else would work at range, which left us with trying to lure him out. Because that had worked so well the last time. With a breeze coming in from outside now, I could smell danger, more guns, gunpowder. Cabe, the only unfamiliar scent on the air.

“He’s right outside,” I said. “He’s moving in.”

Something arced through the open window and cracked on the floor. A rock or something. Something metallic. Tina spotted it first, lunged for it, grabbed it—a grenade. She threw herself on that grenade, literally. I yelled at her—I couldn’t lose anyone else—

She cocked back and threw it back through the window. It exploded on the dirt clearing outside, a sound of thunder and a roiling orange fireball, debris scattering in all directions. Rock and gravel struck the house like bullets. We all ducked away from the destruction.

Another shot rang out—Cabe taking advantage of the confusion. Tina was standing right in front of the window, only seconds after she’d gotten rid of the grenade. As if Cabe had expected something like this, like the grenade had been just a distraction. The shot hit her torso. She fell. I screamed.

Grant was at her side before I could think to move. “She’s alive!” he called. Tina herself backed up his statement a moment later.

“Shit!” she groaned.

At that moment, I could have been easily persuaded to believe in the power of prayer. Please, God and whatever other powers are watching, get us through this.

“I need a distraction out front,” I said. I found the handgun on the kitchen counter. It had only four shots left; it would have to be enough.

Anastasia pulled Provost off the floor. “Get up, you. Time to be useful.” She slapped his face a couple of times, and he slowly came out of his daze. When he saw the vampire holding him up by his arm, her nails digging into his skin, he panicked. Jerking away from her, he thrashed, pounded with his fists, screamed. Anastasia’s grip never weakened.

She grabbed his chin and forced him to look at her. “I could finish you without even thinking of it. Just like I finished your friend Valenti. I guarantee you it won’t be an easy death.” She caught him in her gaze, and he calmed, hanging limply in her hands. His face went taut, despairing, but he stopped fighting her. He was trapped, hypnotized.

Part of me wanted to leap to his defense, and the feeling horrified me. That was my Wolf, sensing another, weaker wolf in danger—our wolf. There was an instinct to protect him. But this man was evil. I wouldn’t claim him. Couldn’t. Not this one, I told my whining Wolf and turned away.

Anastasia hauled Provost through the front door, shoving him in front of her as a shield.

Grant and I looked at each other. This was it.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on the front.”

I didn’t go out through the back door, in case it was trapped. But there was a window on the side of the house. I opened it and popped out the screen. Moved very, very carefully. Listening hard, smelling all around the edges for gunpowder, wooden stakes, silver arrows, anything that might be a weapon. The ground under the window looked fine. Here goes, then.

Quietly, I lowered myself out the window to the ground. When I didn’t blow up, I ran to the corner and edged along the porch until I could see Cabe.

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 pull herself to the door. Curled up, hugging her middle, she looked out. Blood covered her hands. Her eyes were bright and, unbelievably, she was smiling.

“Tina.” Kneeling by her, I took hold of her shoulder.

“It’s okay. Kitty, it’s going to be okay,” she said, gasping. “Listen.”

“What? What is it? Tina—”

She gripped my arm with bloody hands. “Listen!”

I held my breath and listened. At first, I thought it was thunder, a distant rumble. But it didn’t fade. It was regular, steady, and getting louder.

The thump of a helicopter motor filled the valley. A helicopter. Oh my God.

I ran off the porch, calling, “Anastasia!”

“I hear it,” she said, standing and looking toward the meadow and airstrip.

Still running, I headed down the path and looked up. A searchlight panned over me from above. I waved my arms, jumped up and down, shouted. The aircraft could have belonged to Provost and friends, it could have opened fire on me, and I was too tired to care.

But the helicopter was red, with the words “Search and Rescue” painted on the side.