Touch The Dark

Chapter 2

The gun was snatched from my hand and I was smashed into the mason-block wall, face first. In the same breath, my arm was wrenched up so far behind me that I was afraid it would break. I didn't see what happened then because I was too busy getting a concrete facial, but I heard what sounded like every metal shelving unit in the place being turned over. Someone gave a roar of rage, then a swell of power billowed through the room like a hot wind, crashing against my skin in a hail of sparks. If I'd had enough breath, I would have screamed, both at the sensation and at the sheer pettiness of the bastard who wouldn't allow me even a tiny chance of escape. Not only had Tony sent a whole squad of vamps after me, but at least one of them simply had to be a master. No one else could summon that kind of power, not even five ordinary vamps working together. And it wasn't just any old master, either.

Most vamps spend their immortal lives as little more than slaves, serving whoever made them without the ability to break away or to refuse an assignment. But some, usually those who were the strongest willed in life, over time gain power. When they reach master level, they can make other vampires to serve them, and are usually given some autonomy by their makers. Seventh level is the lowest master rank, and most never progress past it, but for those who do, each additional step up the ladder gains them new abilities and more freedom. I'd been around master vamps all my life, up to third-level ones like Tony, and I'd seen plenty of them lose their tempers. But it had never before felt like their power might actually burn holes in my skin. It seemed impossible that Tony had talked a senior vamp, second or first level, into taking on a sordid little assassination—offing me wasn't exactly a challenge—but there wasn't any other explanation.

I yelled for Tomas to run, even knowing it wouldn't do any good, and my vamp decided I must not be in enough pain if I could make all that noise. He lowered the hand holding the back of my head to my neck and squeezed. I remember thinking that, if I was lucky, he'd choke me to death before he remembered to bring me over. It didn't make for a great night for me, but it was better than looking at Tony's ugly face for eternity.

A second later, when I was beginning to see dots swirling around my vision and to hear a roaring in my ears, the vamp gave a high-pitched scream and the pressure suddenly let up. I gasped and fell to my knees, struggling to get a deep breath past my burning throat, while he flopped around in front of me, screeching as if he was literally being torn apart. It took me a few seconds to figure out what was wrong with him, since it wasn't an everyday occurrence. A big hint was the warm, almost liquid feeling tracing a lopsided pentagram on my back, as if someone had drizzled heated oil over my skin. Another clue was that the vamp's arm and part of his chest were covered in lines that glowed gold as they sizzled and popped, cooking the flesh between them and the bone. As I watched, one molten welt obscured the small indentation over his breast where my bullet had gone in and kept going. I stared at him in paralyzed shock. From the shape of the marks, it was pretty obvious that my ward had flared to life.

That was ironic, considering that Tony must have been the one to have it worked into my skin in the first place. I'd always thought he'd been gypped: its original pentagram shape had stretched as I grew older, and all I'd ended up with was an ugly tattoo that covered half my back and part of my left shoulder. But although it wasn't a very good-looking design anymore, it seemed to work pretty well. However, the vamp who attacked me wasn't a master—that surge of energy had come from somewhere behind us—and how my ward would fair against one of the big boys was an open question. I was pretty impressed that it had done this much; the only time it had flared up before, it hadn't put on nearly as much of a show. It had only burnt the would-be mugger's arm, singeing him enough that I was able to get away. Of course, then it had been a human trying to rip my head off. Maybe it became stronger depending on the strength of the one it was fighting? I had a bad feeling I was going to find out.

I know something about wards, since Tony always kept two wardsmiths on staff to maintain the fortress of magical protections around his home and businesses. I'd learned from them that there are three main categories: perimeter wards, energy wards and protection wards. Perimeter wards are what Tony uses as camouflage when he's up to something illegal—in other words, constantly. Energy wards are more complex: at their best, they are better than Prozac at relieving stress and helping people work through emotional problems. At their worst, which is the way Tony usually used them, they could allow him to influence important business negotiations. Everyone within the perimeter of the wards would start to feel very mellow and would suddenly decide that cutthroat tactics were too much trouble when they could simply do whatever Tony wanted. There are two types of protection wards: personal shields and guards. Eugenie instructed me in the first type when I was a kid. Without them, I could even sense the ghosts of ghosts—the thin energy trails stretching back in time like glowing lines on a map, telling me that once, maybe hundreds of years ago, a spirit had passed by. The older I got, the more distracted I became by the impressions, maybe because Tony's old mansion was sandwiched between an Indian burial ground and a colonial cemetery. Eugenie had finally tired of my mind wandering during lessons and gave me the tools to shield against them. She taught me to sense my energy field, what some people call an aura, then use my power to build a hedge around it for protection. Eventually, my shields became automatic, filtering out anything except active spirits in the here and now.

But shields are only as powerful as the person building them, since they usually draw on personal power, and most aren't enough to thwart a major spiritual or physical attack. That's where guards come in. Crafted by a group of magic users, they are designed to protect a person, object or location from harm. They can be set to fend off danger, usually by turning the evil intent back on its sender or, in cases like mine, ensuring that anyone touching me with harm in mind ends up screaming in agony.

These types of wards are big business in the supernatural community. Tony once paid a wardsmith a small fortune to craft a special perimeter-protection combo for a convoy of ships carrying some highly illegal substances. He was supposed to make them look like old garbage scowls to any observers—not the sort of thing the authorities enjoy searching too thoroughly. But the smith was young and careless, and the wards failed right as the ships were heading into port—almost in front of a Coast Guard patrol. Tony lost the cargo and the wardsmith lost his life. I had been too young when my ward was done to remember the experience, but whoever had crafted it knew what he or she was doing. Tony must have paid a pretty penny for it, although this was probably one instance when he wished he'd gone cut rate.

My eyes had begun to water from the stench of frying vampire flesh, not something you smell every day, and I gagged for a moment before suddenly realizing that I could move again. I looked around frantically for my weapon, before almost immediately giving up and scrambling around the edge of a shelving unit. There was no sign of my 9 mm, and no way was I going to make it to the door without it. And the few boxes on the unit that formed my sad excuse for a hiding spot were not going to fool anybody for long. No weapon, no way to hide and only a warped ward for protection. I decided on the better part of valor, also known as running and hiding, and started backing down the aisle.

If I could avoid the master vamp for a minute, maybe I could make it to the small door leading to the unfinished part of the basement. It had no doorway to the rest of the club but abutted the wall behind the far end of the bar. If I was out of sight, there was a tiny chance the vamp's senses might be confused and he'd assume I'd slipped into the bar again. That might buy me a few seconds to sneak out the back, if he didn't do the smart thing and leave one of his guys to watch it. Of course, even if he did, my ward might take out another low-level vamp. Then again, it might not.

I finally reached the half-sized door at the end of the last row of shelves, but hadn't even gotten it open before I heard a crash and an inhuman scream behind me. I looked over my shoulder, expecting to see one or more murderous vamps headed my way. It took my panicked brain a few seconds to realize that the person floating down the aisle was Portia, and that the sound of fighting was coming from several aisles over.

"I told you I would bring help, Cassie!" Her face was shining with excitement and the little rows of curls on either side of her head bobbed as she turned to gesture dramatically behind her. What looked like an entire Confederate brigade had muscled into the storeroom, even though there's no way it could have held anywhere near that many people. I'd seen that trick before—metaphysics tells regular old physics to go take a hike sometimes—but it was still impressive.

A dashing officer with a long mustache swept me a bow. "Captain Beauregard Lewis, at your service, ma'am." He looked kind of like Custer, an observation that probably wouldn't have gone down well if I'd been dumb enough to make it. But before I could say anything, a vamp reached through the shelving and the captain's insubstantial middle and grabbed me around the throat.

Beauregard unsheathed his sword and I had half a second to wonder what he thought he was going to do before it came down in a flashing arc that took off the vamp's arm at the elbow. He yelled and so did I, in my case because I'd been sprayed with a warm sheet of blood and because the severed arm was still tight around my throat, fingers digging for my windpipe. Vamp bodies don't die unless both head and heart are destroyed, so the arm was trying to complete the last order it had been given and choke me to death. Beauregard tried to pry it off, but his hand went right through me.

"I sure am sorry, ma'am," he said, while my vision threatened to go dark for the second time that night. "But I used most of my energy on that blow." He shook his head sadly. "Time has caused us to sadly diminish." He looked like he expected me to say something, but it's a little hard to sympathize when you can't draw a breath and fireworks are going off behind your eyelids.

The vamp made another lunge at me, but Portia managed to trip him with her parasol. "Get him!" she cried, and the battalion, which had been merely observing the scene until now, moved as one churning, massive river of gray. It was one of those moments when your eyes cross as the brain tells them they can't be seeing what they say they are. Several thousand troops converged on the same point, falling into it like water disappearing down a drain. Only the drain in question wasn't designed for that kind of thing and sure as hell didn't like it. The vamp started ricocheting off shelving units, his one arm flapping as if he could somehow beat off the invasion, while his skin turned a mottled shade of purple.

By the time I managed to pry the fingers around my neck loose and throw the arm on the floor, he had stopped moving, frozen like a statue at the end of the aisle. I tried to keep an eye on him but was distracted by the severed arm, which was trying to scrabble across the floor and grab me. I wasn't real clear on what was happening, but my best guess was that each ghost was freezing a tiny bit of the vamp, turning him into a big. ugly Popsicle. I had just begun to wonder what would happen when all those spirits tried to escape from his now unyielding flesh when the explosion came. I'd grabbed a wine bottle and started hitting the arm, so I missed the big event. All I know is that I ended up covered in icy bits of vampire flesh that hit me like tiny hailstones.

Portia drifted over, avoiding the repulsive floor by simply not touching it. She twirled her lacy parasol and beamed at me. "We must go, Cassie. That took a lot out of the boys and they need to rest. But we want you to know that we had a lovely time!" She took Beauregard's arm and curtsied while he made another bow; then they vanished along with the crowd that flowed out of the vamp's remains.

I sat in the middle of a patch of melting goo, too stunned for action, and rubbed my neck. My face stung from where the storm of vamp parts had hit me, but my throat was more of an issue. I couldn't seem to swallow, and it had me worried. I might have sat there quite a while, watching vamp bits melt and fall off the shelving, but Tomas appeared at the end of the aisle.

"Hurry!" He grabbed me by the wrist and hauled me into the main part of the room. I yelped in pain—he'd taken hold of the same wrist the vamp had almost twisted off—and in surprise at seeing him alive. I'd pretty much written us both off, but now it occurred to me to wonder who had been fighting with the vamps if Portia's group had been with me. His hand was dripping blood and for a second I thought it was his, but I couldn't see a wound. My yell must have startled him, because he abruptly let go and I slumped to the floor, wheezing and choking at the strain the scream had put on my abused throat. It was then, while cradling my wrist to my chest and trying not to be sick, that I noticed the bodies.

Other than my first attacker, who was now minus an arm and making gurgling sounds as the ward ate through his chest, the only one still moving was trapped under a shelving unit that looked like it had been torn from the wall and thrown on top of him. It had contained a bunch of metal sheets left over from the urban warehouse theme Mike had done on the club, which had been salvaged from a condemned factory. They weren't some designer's idea of stylish metal siding, but the real thing—thick, razor-edged pieces that Mike had had to be extra careful with when installing. They had apparently gotten up some momentum when the shelving was tossed around, turning them into lethal projectiles that had sliced up the vamp like a loaf of bread. He must have fed recently, because enough blood had poured from the multiple gashes to spread across the floor like a crimson blanket.

None of the strips had taken off his head or pierced his heart, however, so despite his gruesome injuries, he continued to live. He looked in my direction, and I saw him struggle to raise the gun he clutched in one hand. Tomas noticed and without hesitation walked over and pulled out the metal sheet embedded in the vamp's abdomen. He brought it down in a series of quick, meaty-sounding thuds while I stared at him in openmouthed disbelief. Within a few seconds, the thing on the floor resembled a pile of raw hamburger more than a person.

The vamp's eyes continued to glare at me in hatred, aware of what was happening even as he was butchered, and I couldn't scream, couldn't do anything. I'd been in some tight spots before, but the nerves forget what it is to remain bowstring tight every minute of every day when you don't have to live that way anymore. I watched Tomas sever the vamp's head from his body with a final jarring thud, and let out the breath I hadn't even known I was holding. We were alive. I couldn't believe it, and I sure as hell didn't understand it.

Growing up at Tony's had given me a fairly high tolerance for violence, so I was sort of holding things together until I noticed that the corpses of the fourth and fifth vamps had gaping, ragged holes where their hearts should have been. Staking is the traditional and still most popular way of dealing with a vamp, but I guess ripping the heart out manually works, too, although I'd never seen it done that way. I was thinking that I could live without ever seeing it again when I looked at Tomas and, suddenly, the room fell away.

Normally, I get some kind of warning when I'm about to have a vision. Not that I can stop them, but the thirty seconds or so of disorientation that precede them give me time to get out of other people's sight and let me mentally prepare. This time, I got nothing. It was as if the floor just gave way and I fell down a long, dark tunnel. When I landed, Tomas stood about six feet from me on a grassy plain that seemed to go on forever under a pale blue sky. His skin was burnished bronze instead of sun-kissed cream and he was dressed in a sleeveless, dirty, woolen tunic instead of Goth chic, but it was definitely him. His eyes were wild, glittering like two dark jewels in his face, and his expression was triumphant. A group of similarly dressed men surrounded him, all looking like their favorite team had just won the Super Bowl.

Waves crashed onto a rocky shore nearby, their color a green so deep it was almost black, and sent a cold breeze inland in icy gusts. It would have been a stark but beautiful scene if not for the couple of dozen bodies lying around. Most of them looked European, with the closest in an outfit that could have come out of an underfunded pirate movie: white cotton shirt with full sleeves, brown linen knee pants and soiled white hose. The man had lost his shoes and his hair was as wild as his expression.

As I watched in horrified fascination, Tomas thrust a crude bronze knife into the man's still-heaving chest and cut a deep gash that ripped it open from neck to belly. Heat from the wound mixed with the cold air to cause a cloud of steam to rise, but it wasn't thick enough to keep me from seeing him tear through the ribs like he was snapping twigs. Bright rivulets of blood bathed his hand as he brought out the trembling heart and held it aloft; then slowly, as if savoring the moment, he began to lower it to his mouth. His teeth sank into quivering flesh that was still trying to beat, then tore through a pulsing vein that sent a stream of blood gushing across his face and down his chin. The cascade pooled in the hollow in his throat, then sent red fingers down his chest into his tunic, leaving abstract designs behind so that he looked like he was wearing war paint. His throat convulsed and he swallowed, causing a cheer to go up from the watching warriors.

I must have made some type of noise, because he looked across at me and, flashing red-stained teeth in a horrible parody of a smile, held out the grisly mass of flesh as if to offer to share. He took a step forward and I realized I was rooted to the spot, unable to stop him, unable to get away, as that dripping hand with its gruesome offering came closer. My paralysis finally broke and I screamed.

It hurt my throat, but there was no way I could have held it back. The vision shattered and I was back in the gory storeroom, staring wildly at the new Tomas, who, for a split second, was superimposed on the old. His tongue slid out to lick up a tiny drop of red at the corner of his mouth, so small that it had been unnoticeable until he drew attention to it. I remember thinking that old habits die hard, right before I began shrieking at the top of my lungs.

He took a step towards me, hands held out in front of him as if to show how harmless he was, and I saw that they were almost clean again. As he came closer, a final stain on the pad of one palm dissolved, vanishing into his skin like a drop of water into desert sand. I realized that I was scuttling backwards like a crab, crying and swearing, but I didn't care. I slipped in blood and went down, and screamed harder when I saw that my legs were covered in red, like roses had bloomed on my hose and boots. Tomas came towards me slowly, speaking calmly, as if I were a skittish colt he was trying to tame. "Cassie, please listen. We've bought some time, but we must go. There will be others."

I slipped again and fell on my butt, bruising it on something hard. Some part of my brain that was still coherent recognized the shape of the object, and I snatched my gun from beneath me. "Don't come any closer or I'll kill you." I pointed it at Tomas and, despite the fact that it was shaking wildly in my less-than-steady grip, I could tell he knew I meant it. His eyes, usually soft and warm and open, were opaque black mirrors now. I couldn't see anything past them, and I didn't want to. God, I didn't want to.

"Cassie, you must listen to me." I looked into that handsome face, and some part of me detached itself to watch another illusion shatter and die. I thought I'd finally done something good, that I'd actually helped someone, saved somebody, instead of always watching every damn thing I did end in pain—either mine or someone else's. I should have known it was too good to be true, that he was too good. Way out of your league, Cassie, my girl, I thought as my back hit the door. Maybe you should start smaller, adopt a kitten next time—only I knew there was very little chance that there would be a next time.

I could hear the thud of music from the club through the door, some kind of chant mixed with techno, and it sounded like heaven. I wanted to lose myself in the crowd, make my way up to the street and run like hell. I was the hiding champ, and in the tourist district it would be easy to become an anonymous member of the happy, Friday-night throng. I had a separate bank account under yet another fake name and an emergency stash of nondescript clothes in a locker at the bus station, and I'd memorized every back alley in a fifteen-block radius. I'd get away all right, if only I could lose Tomas.

I slowly slid up the door, using it to steady myself and cursing my high heels. My skirt rode up but I didn't bother to straighten it; flashing Tomas was the least of my worries. I felt behind me with a hand slick with blood and finally found the doorknob. I fell through the opening on unsteady legs, slammed the door behind me and scrambled around the bar. I couldn't get a deep breath and my body convulsed like it wanted to be sick, but I held on. I didn't have time for that now.

The light show had started, and the bouncing, gyrating mass of dancers was slashed through by blinding blasts from the strobes. The pulsing rhythm and the noise of the crowd made me immediately deaf, but I didn't need to hear Tomas to know he was back there. The strobes leached the color from the blood on me, turning it alternately black and silver. The low lighting let me blend in without causing a stampede, although I doubted I looked normal. I slithered through every opening, trying to think as I ran, but my higher brain wasn't home, and all my instincts said was "Faster!" I tried, because there was nothing else to do but wait for him to catch me, but I already knew it wouldn't be enough.

I was halfway across the dance floor when Tomas grabbed me. He spun me around to face him, and I felt a hand slide through the burnt back of my T-shirt to meld our bodies together. It probably looked like we were dancing to everyone else; only I knew that I couldn't pull away. He had an iron grip on my gun hand, forcing the weapon down to my side and away from him. I wouldn't have tried to fire anyway. My palm was so sweaty that I was having trouble just holding on to the thing, and there were too many people around to risk a shot going wild. Besides, unless I missed my guess, a bullet wouldn't do much more than irritate him.

His fingers slid up my naked spine to the outline of my ward. He traced the edges almost reverently. "I heard stories of this but never believed them." His voice was full of something that sounded like awe. Somehow he made me hear him despite the deafening music, but I wasn't interested in conversation. I twisted, trying futilely to break his hold, and cursed the useless ward. It must have been exhausted by the previous fight or else it didn't work against those at his level, because it had no reaction to his touch.

"Cassie, look at me."

I fought him, knowing from childhood that looking a vampire directly in the eyes made it easier for him to control you. After the scene in the storeroom, there was no doubt in my mind what he was, and I desperately didn't want him in my head. Given that he'd gone right under my vamp radar and posed as human for months, there was no chance that I was dealing with less than a third-level master, and possibly higher. Make that probably, considering that, on rare occasions, I'd seen him walk around in full daylight, which even Tony couldn't do without risking a lot worse than a sunburn. Not that his level mattered; if he felt like it, any master could have me clucking like a chicken with little more than a glance.

Once, I'd had a level of protection from that sort of thing, but with my old defender the very one wanting me dead, I was fair game; no one would even avenge any harm that came to me. For all I knew, Tomas would get a bounty for bringing me in. Tony didn't mind paying for revenge, and considering how much I'd cost him, he'd probably pay up with a smile. Was that why Tomas had killed the other vamps, seeing them as rivals for his reward? How the hell much was Tony offering for me, anyway? And why had Tomas waited so long to cash in?

I struggled and fought but everyone ignored us, I guess under the assumption that I was merely a lousy dancer. Tomas just clasped me tighter. Considering how seldom I touched him, it felt weird to be held so intimately now. It was hard to remember that this was Tomas. My brain had put him firmly in the friend category and was resisting moving him over to the file labeled psycho-assassin vampire. The way he was holding me wasn't helping the confusion—his hand felt a lot more than friendly as it slid up and down my almost bare back, pulling me into a dance far slower and more sensual than the music called for.

Contrary to legend, his body felt warm against mine and as smooth as muscled satin, but he may as well have been carved of steel for all the hope I had of breaking his hold. My pulse sped up and I thought I would faint when he bent his head and I felt lips trailing over my neck. I think my heart actually stopped as he delicately kissed the skin as if tasting the pulse under the surface. It felt like my blood could sense him, as if it moved slower and thicker in my veins, waiting for him to set it free. I broke out in a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of so many bodies crowded into a small place. Was he going to kill me right there, in front of a couple of hundred witnesses? A chill ran through me when I realized that he could probably get away with it. He could definitely carry my body off and no one would think anything about it; all they'd see was Tomas taking care of his roommate, who'd fainted in the heat. What a gentleman.

I should have known something like this was going to happen. Every time I trusted someone, he betrayed me; every time I loved someone, she died. Since Tomas was already dead, I guessed the pattern held true.

"Please don't fight me." His breath over my clammy skin made me shiver. The suggestion ran like a drug through my veins, bathing me in a comfortable, rosy glow that took away some of the fear and most of the pain, but also made it harder to think. It wasn't as strong as if I'd made eye contact, but it still made me feel like I was surrounded by heavy water instead of air, with every tiny movement more of a struggle than it should have been. Not that it mattered: my efforts were doing nothing except sending dull pains through my sore wrist and exciting him. Nothing showed on his face, but his body was not as fully under control, and I could feel him stretched tight and firm against his jeans.

He brushed warm lips over mine. "I don't intend to hurt you," he whispered. If there had been any point, I'd have reminded him that whether he did the assassination himself or merely turned me over to Tony, the end result would be the same. But I didn't have time to say anything before his lips ghosted over mine again; then suddenly his control snapped and he covered my mouth in a bruising kiss that had none of the previous gentleness.

His arms tightened, pressing me against every inch of him, kissing me almost desperately, like a starving man at a feast. That strong hand slipped farther down my back until it found the edge of my short leather skirt and pushed it up. He suddenly lifted me completely off the floor and settled me against his waist, so that I had to twine my legs around him or fall, and the sensory overload was enough that it took me a minute to realize that he was dancing us back towards the storeroom. Apparently he preferred his kills to be private.

He was still kissing me when the first burst of energy radiated off him, sending a shudder down to my fingertips. Either something had broken his concentration or he wasn't bothering to shield anymore. And why should he? I was probably the only sensitive there, and I already knew what he was. He may have looked the same to everyone else, but to me, it was like his skin had been dipped in molten gold, causing him to shine like a miniature sun in the dark room. The amount of energy pouring off him raised little hairs all along my arms and at the back of my neck as it swirled and crackled around us. The very air seemed to gain weight, feeling like it does right before a storm breaks—everything was suddenly clearer, brighter, and more sharp edged. All that force soon found a focus. It hit me like high tide at the ocean, drenching me in wave after wave of his power, making it hard to remember why I was fighting, or much of anything else.

He broke off the kiss and I made a small, involuntary sound of protest before he slid his mouth down to my neck again. But this time I didn't mind; this time, it seemed a curiously tender gesture, although a small part of my brain noted that his hair fell across my ruined shirt, hiding it from the brighter lights near the bar. Lucille, who was filling an order a couple of yards away, gave me a surprised thumbs-up as we slipped behind the counter. I didn't try to call for help. I rationalized it by asking what Lucille could do against even a baby vamp, much less a master. The truth, though, was that I simply didn't care. But Tomas must have thought I was about to be foolish, or maybe he didn't want to take chances. He kissed me again, and whatever his motives, there was no doubt that he knew what he was doing. The silken feel of his lips on mine muddled my thoughts even more and, when we finally broke apart, I was too stunned to remember not to catch his gaze. My mind immediately froze, all thoughts except Tomas simply not there anymore, like a switch had been thrown in my brain. The light dimmed and the music receded until all I could see was his face and all I could hear was the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

Why had I never noticed the way his eyes tilted so enticingly upward? The lashes were a black silk fringe around the tiny flames the bar's lighting caused to dance in his pupils. Something in me reacted to the heat I saw in that stare, because my hands acquired a will of their own and began tracing the flat planes of his stomach through the insubstantial barrier of his shirt. All that seemed to matter was the feel of those hard muscles under that silky skin; all I wanted was to work my way up to his neck and bury my hands in that gleaming fall of midnight hair, to see whether it was as soft, thick and heavy as it looked. But then I was distracted by the sight of a dusky nipple bared by one of the many gaps in his shirt, the sort of thing that had driven me to distraction more times than I could count. I discovered that it tasted as good as it looked, as good as I'd always known it would, and it tightened nicely under the efforts of my lips and teeth as if it had been longing for my touch. All things considered, I barely noticed when Tomas carried me back into the storeroom and shut the door with his foot.

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and slowly pulled away from me. After a moment he spoke in a hoarse voice completely unlike his usual tones. "Give me the gun, Cassie. Someone could get hurt if it accidentally goes off." The sound of his voice, harsh and curiously flat, cleared my head a little. Seeing my first attacker helped, too. He was lying in three pieces, having been eaten completely in half by the ward. Through the wreck of his body, I could see blackened splinters where part of a lopsided pentagram had been burnt into the wooden floor. I stared at the sight, feeling slightly dizzy and very odd. All of a sudden, I got the joke: someone could get hurt. Now, that was funny.

I clutched Tomas to keep from falling, my gun dangling uselessly against his back. He took it from my limp hand and tucked it away somewhere. I didn't see where he put it; it simply disappeared. He was looking at me with concern, and suddenly that was funny, too. I started to giggle. I hoped Tony paid him well—he was a riot.

"Cassie, I can carry you if you want, but we must go." He glanced at the clock on the wall. It said 8:37.

"Look, we have time to make our appointment." I was still giggling, and the voice didn't sound like mine. I vaguely realized that I was about to become hysterical, then Tomas moved. The next thing I knew, I was back in his arms and we were outside, running along a darkened road so quickly that the streetlights all blurred together in a long, silver line. A second later, two dark shapes joined us, one on either side.

"Sleep," Tomas commanded as the world raced past. I realized that I was terribly tired and sleep seemed a very good idea. I felt warm and comfortable, although my head was spinning so much that it looked like the night sky rushed down to meet us or that we were flying up to the stars. I remember thinking dreamily, right before I drifted off, that as deaths go, this one wasn't so bad.