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What the hell did that mean?

I extended my athame and concentrated, drawing more power. The earth was rich in energy here, but channeling it naked was painful. I was blasting out nerve endings in my hands and fingers, singeing the hairs on my arms. Holding on to the materia was like swallowing fire. I gritted my teeth and kept pulling.

When the power filled my core, I let it flow down the hilt of the athame, willing the molecular bonds of the blade to loosen. The metal shimmered and flexed. I kept pushing, and the blade elongated, becoming a line of crackling, green-tinted light. It was now roughly the size of a katana, and just as delicately bowed. I wrapped my hand firmly around the hilt, even as it burned me.

“Wanna tussle?” I kept those three bloody drops in my sight, memorizing their precise configura-tion in case we met again. “Let’s do it.”

He pointed the glove at me. Electric red vapors blossomed from his palm.

I held the athame extended in front of me, adjusting the wavelength of the intense UV light that was powering it. The field of energy spread outward, molding to the shape of a sphere around me. I drew from the ground one more time. The power moved hungrily through raw channels. I felt a wave of pain, but I stood my ground.

The nebulous red fire washed over my shield, like a toxic cloud. Glowing fissures appeared along the surface of the sphere. Each one was a claw sinking into me. I held on tighter to the athame, staring straight ahead, even as my eyes began to water.

The cloud thinned, then dissipated. I was still alive.

Maybe even for five more minutes.

Patrick yelled something I couldn’t understand. Maybe it was in Anglo-Saxon. Then he ran toward the necromancer.

“No! You idiot, get back here!”

His form blurred, and he slammed into the figure in black. They both toppled to the ground. I always forgot how strong he was.

They wrestled with each other. I saw the glove beginning to glow again.

Shit.

If he touched Patrick, the necroid materia would unravel his flesh like a rotten net. Even if he was technically dead already, I didn’t think his cells were immune to that kind of annihilating power.

I ran toward the two bodies grappling on the ground, holding the athame high above my head. If I was going to go out tonight, at least I’d do it in glorious style.

I sliced downward with the blade, aiming for the necromancer’s head. As I’d anticipated, he raised his right palm to ward off the blow by reflex. The blade struck one of the glowing gemstones on the glove, cracking it.

Sparks leapt from the glove. The necromancer cried out for the first time as red light crawled up his wrist, searing through the flesh of his hand. I raised my athame for another blow, but something hard and sharp hit me in my solar plexus. The blow knocked my legs out from under me, and I fell.

Both of them were struggling for the gun now. I tried to breathe. My chest burned from whatever offensive power he’d thrown at me. I raised myself to one knee. I was inches away from the car now. It gave me an idea.

I didn’t have much strength left to draw on geothermal materia. But the car’s engine was an electrical catalyst. I placed my palm against the hood. I could feel the battery inside, dark and asleep.

Wake up!

I pulled with every scrap of willpower that I had left. I didn’t have the mastery to draw upon raw electrical power, like lightning from a storm. But I was definitely plucky enough to drain a car battery of its energy reserves.

The stale electricity tore through me, spasming the muscles of my right arm. It hurt even more than I’d thought it would. The pain made everything go white for a second. But I held on to consciousness. I narrowed the snapping electricity down to a small, hot globe of power and intensity.

“Patrick!” He looked at me, struggling to pin the necromancer to the ground. “Get out of the way!

Now!”

For the first time ever, Patrick listened.

He rolled away, leaving the necromancer in the open.

I pointed my athame low, aiming for the puddles on the ground, which would amplify the charge. A white-blue ball of electricity exploded from the tip of the blade. It swept over the necromancer’s body, and this time, he screamed.

Nice.

I tried to step forward, but my legs were made of rubber. The muscular convulsions brought me to my knees again. I snarled and crawled forward, the asphalt scraping my palms and blackening my jeans.

“Not only,” I panted, “have you fucked up my evening . . .” He was trembling on the ground now, smoke rising from his body. “You’ve fucked up my outfit. And that pisses me off the most.”

I managed to stand up. Patrick was approaching me. He wasn’t holding the gun anymore. My eyes widened.

“Where’s the Gl—”

The necromancer managed to raise himself on one knee. He had the Glock pointed at my chest. His face was a ruin of metal, blood, and acrid smoke.

His eyes were still calm.

I felt a cold emptiness spread through me. The breath left my lungs. I had no more power left. I couldn’t stop a bullet.

Patrick’s form blurred. He shot toward the necromancer, a dark arrow.

I heard the gun fire. I closed my eyes.

Something hit me in the shoulder. Hard enough to dislocate it. I screamed and tumbled across the ground, opening my eyes.

I was in pain. But I wasn’t bleeding. And I was lying against the asphalt, meters away from where I’d been a second ago.

I looked up, and saw a completely unfamiliar person standing between me and the necromancer. All I could see was his back. He was wearing a red Windbreaker and jeans. His hair was blue.

Blue?

He turned around, keeping his left hand extended toward the necromancer, as if he could ward him off through force of will alone. His hair, I realized, was blue only at the tips, almost frosted. He had dark green eyes and a labret piercing. He didn’t look a day over sixteen, but his genetic signature was old. Centuries old.

“Stay back,” he said simply.

Patrick stared at him. “Modred? What are you doing here?”

Modred reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. It looked similar to my Glock, but there was a modified piece attached to the ammo cartridge. He turned and leveled the gun at the necromancer.

“Hwaet, scathe! These bullets are hollow-tipped and filled with atrazine. I promise you don’t want to see what they’ll do to your central nervous system.”

The necromancer wavered on one knee for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he closed his gloved hand into a fist. I felt a rush of power, and the two remaining gemstones turned completely black.

A halo of black light enveloped him. The temperature dropped. The cold hit me like a knife, and when I breathed out, the air crystallized in front of my face.

I blinked, and he was gone. A shadow rippled across the ground of the parking lot, coating everything it touched with a mantle of frost.

Patrick limped over to where Modred was standing. He took the vampire’s hand, smiling. “Wow. I can’t believe you heard my call.”

“Corpses heard your call, magnate. You shouted.”

“It’s what Tess told me to do.”

Modred turned to me. “That was quick thinking.”

“Yeah. I’ve been known for it, on occasion.” I managed to get to my feet, coming to stand behind Patrick.

“Lucky you were close by.”

“Yes.” His expression was unreadable. “I was in the area.”

“Have you got a car?”

He looked at me strangely. “You require a vehicle?” “My car battery’s dead. I killed it.”

“Ah. With the electrical blast.” He stared at a space a few inches above my shoulder for a second.

Then he nodded. “I’ve called the other monitors. Someone will come to pick us up soon.”

“That’s some handy telepathy.”

“It’s closer to sonar, actually.”

“Right.” I blinked. “Like a vampire dolphin.”

Patrick stared at me. Then he burst out laughing.

I laughed, too. But I wasn’t quite as relieved as he was. The necromancer was gone, but I knew he’d be back. We’d barely scraped by.

And I didn’t trust Modred for a second.

8

I expected a fleet of vampire limousines to pick us up. I was a bit surprised when a lone taxicab pulled into the parking lot. A young guy in a baseball cap leaned his head out of the driver’s-side window, smiling. Wavy blond curls spilled out from under the brim of the cap.

“Need a lift?”

Modred glanced at his watch. “You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”

“Traffic was snarly.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The driver rolled his eyes. “Fine. I stopped for a bite to eat.”

I wasn’t sure if he was talking about Taco Bell or an actual human buffet. I didn’t really want to know, to be honest. Sometimes, with vampires, it was best to just stay ignorant and let them do their business in the dark.

Patrick waved to the driver. “Cyrus. What’s up?”

“Not much, magnate. Just finishing my nightly beat.”

I frowned. “Do you actually work for a taxi company?”

He looked at me and smiled. “Best way to patrol the city without raising suspicion from normates.

Now, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I’m Cyrus, the monitor for North and West Vancouver.”

“North Vancouver,” Modred corrected. “Pilar looks after the West.”

“She’s on sabbatical.”

“That doesn’t mean that her duties have been delegated to you. All of us share the responsibility of managing her territory.”

“Meh—semantics.” He extended his hand out the window. “At any rate, I’m single and employed, if that does anything for you.”

I shook his hand. “Tess Corday. And it doesn’t.”

I flipped open my phone and sent Derrick a brief text. Safe and coming home. Stay put. Tea +

Motrin, plz.

Cyrus spied the ID badge hanging from the lanyard under my jacket. “Whoa. CORE involvement.

Exactly what shit-pile did you fall into, Modred?”

“We can debrief later. We have to get Miss Corday home, and get Patrick back to the daegred for a physical examination.”

Patrick raised a hand. “I’m fine. Really. Just a few bruises.”

“It’s policy, magnate. You need to be examined by one of our physicians.”

I stepped in front of Patrick reflexively. “Nobody’s getting a checkup tonight. I don’t care if the doctor has a heartbeat or not. Patrick’s coming home with me, and then I’m filing a report with my office in the morning.”

Modred gave me a slightly contemptible look. “Your office politics are not our concern, Miss Corday. The magnate is required to submit to a full exam after any sort of combat situation. You have your rules, and we have ours.”

“Miss Corday is my mother. Call me Tess.” I turned to Patrick. “Look. I don’t want to cause a political incident here. If you have to go, then go. But I’d much rather you come home with me.”

“Magnate, I really must insist—” Modred began.

Patrick shook his head. “Sorry. I’m going with Tess. You two are my advisors, but she’s my guardian.”

I tried not to let the satisfaction show on my face.

Modred stared at me for a moment. Not challenging me, per se, but rather trying to assess just how stubborn I was. I met his gaze. He blinked.

“Whatever you think is best, magnate.”

“Hop in, folks. Meter’s running.” Cyrus grinned. “Not really. But we’re letting all the heat out of the car.”

Modred opened the front door. “Drihten mödig, Cyrus! It looks like a fast-food chain exploded in here.”

Cyrus managed to look guilty. “Yeah . . . sorry about that, Mo. I was gonna clean it yesterday, but with all my extra administrative work—”

“Never mind. We can all fit in the backseat.” His eyes hardened. “And don’t call me Mo. We’ve discussed that.”

“Right, right. Forgot.” He winked at me.

I could see why Patrick liked Cyrus. He was like the cool skater kid who got you high before fifth-period math class. Nothing bothered him, at least not permanently, and girls dated him solely to in-furiate their middle-class dads.

We all slid into the backseat. I thanked whatever powers were listening for my strict jeans preference, since a skirt would have been nightmarish in a situation like this. I ended up squeezed between both vampires, acutely aware of the half inch of space separating my knee from Modred’s.

He’d seemed taller when he was standing over the necromancer. Now he managed to fold up compactly, hands resting in his lap with perfect gentility.

Everyone was silent for the first few blocks. Patrick yawned. If I knew anything about teenage boys, he’d be snoring in thirty seconds flat, regardless of the fact that he’d almost been disintegrated tonight.

I examined Modred as discreetly as I could. He had the face of a sixteen-year-old, but his eyes were much older. Until meeting Patrick, it hadn’t occurred to me that a vampire could be turned so young and still survive without help. Both Mia and Patrick had the resources of the CORE watching out for them, as well as my own personal brand of fallible parenting. But Modred had obviously gone through the change a long time ago, far from the protective aegis of a magical community.

I imagined him as a boy-knight fighting in the crusades. What had he seen? Who’d sired him, and what had become of his maker and master? Was it a situation of sire-and-run, indiscriminate and cruel? Or had they been close?

I think Selena told me once that 30 percent of vampires kill their sires.

Modred was looking at me now. He’d caught me staring. Now I needed to say something, or he’d think I was some kind of desperate fang-banger.

“I like your piercing.”

Really, Corday? That’s what you came up with?

Modred blinked. “Thank you.”

“Did it hurt?”

“It was surprisingly painful, yes.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met a vampire with a facial piercing before.”

“Have you met many vampires?”

I couldn’t tell if there was a challenge beneath the question or not. His eyes didn’t change. He had that vampiric trait of complete facial immobility that made it impossible to read his feelings. If he felt anything at all.

“Some,” I said guardedly.