CHAPTER 26
SUNSET BLED ON THE SKY, SMOLDERING IN ITS final death throes. The encroaching twilight tinted the buildings black, turning the blanket of snow indigo.
I sat on top of the building, watching bonfires illuminate the rim of the Mole Hole through binoculars. Curran sat next to me. He wore his warrior form: a seven-and-a-half-feet-tall gray creature stuck on the crossroads between man and beast.
After Curran’s guard suffered a collective apoplexy over Naeemah, I’d managed to install her into her own set of rooms and went to cook our dinner. The Beast Lord joined me a few minutes later. We made venison steak, french fries smothered in cheese, and a quick pumpkin pie. We ate, then we made love and slept, curled up together in his ridiculous bed, and then Curran changed into his warrior form and I spent two hours drawing the poem of Erra on Curran’s skin with a little tube of henna. When I got tired, I made him call Dali and she took over. Her handwriting was better anyway. I had no idea if it would offer him any protection, but at this point I would try anything.
Behind us, female shapeshifters waited, positioned in individual squads along the street leading to the Casino. The wolves were right behind us, the boudas lay in wait across the street, then the rats and Clan Heavy, jackals, cats, and finally almost three blocks out, Clan Nimble. The squad from Clan Nimble consisted of an older Japanese woman, who was apparently the alpha, and four slender women who looked like they were fifteen tops. Curran told me they were foxes. They held themselves with stern elegance and I bit my tongue and hoped they knew what they were doing.
Somewhere in the darkness Naeemah hid. She picked her own spot and I didn’t argue. Her scent made the shapeshifters uneasy.
I looked back to the Mole Hole. A bonfire burned in the center of the crater, flanked by clusters of metal drums. To the left a row of Biohazard vans waited. People crowded the lip of the crater, medtechs, PAD, bowmen. Most were male. Despite my reports, Ted chose to put men at the crater, probably because he couldn’t raise enough female fighters in time. I’d cursed when I first saw them. Curran shrugged and said, “Bullet meat.”
Beyond the bonfires, a crowd had gathered in the remnants of office buildings. They sat on the makeshift wooden scaffolds, in the darkness of broken windows, on the roofs, on the mountains of rubble. Damn near half of Atlanta must’ve seen the flag and turned out to watch the Order slug it out with the Plaguebringer. Every single one of them could die tonight and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
My binoculars found Ted standing next to a large, fit woman with short red hair. Hard pale eyes. Black pants, black leather jacket, a sheath at her waist with a blade in it. A boar’s head on the pommel of her sword—Sounder’s Armory. They made falchions, single-edged swords of medium length shaped like the bastard children of a longsword and a scimitar. Great-quality swords, but expensive as hell. Judging by the sword and the getup, I was looking at Tamara Wilson.
Ted had imported Order knights from out of the city. He’d planned this—it would’ve taken him at least two days to pull personnel from North Carolina. Whether I walked off or not, this wouldn’t have been my petition anyway.
The magic rolled over us in an invisible wave. Showtime.
Tamara started down a staircase cut into the side of the Mole Hole. She crossed the floor of the crater to the center, where a huge bonfire burned on the glass. Positioning herself before the bonfire, she held up a long pole with the Order’s standard—a lance and a sword crossed over a shield. The light of the bonfire clutched at her black armor. She pulled a watch cap onto her head, hiding her hair.
A lean creature climbed over the roof. Long, hunched over, covered with clumps of gray fur, it moved with fluid quickness. Its feet and hands were disproportionately large, and short black claws tipped its fingers. A conical muzzle flowed into an almost humanoid face, framed by round pink ears.
A wererat. Stealthy, fast, deadly. They didn’t make good warriors but they made excellent scouts. And assassins.
She scuttled over to us and sat on her haunches, her arms folded to her chest. Her muzzle opened, displaying oversized incisors.
“The barrels are filled with napalm.” Her misshapen mouth slurred the words, but they came out clear enough. “They have archers hidden along the edge, some with incendiary arrows.”
Made sense: Erra walks into the Mole Hole, heads for the standard, because it’s a challenge. The archers hit the barrels with incendiary arrows. Erra drowns in a sea of fiery napalm. Tamara magically escapes. Good plan. Except for the part that it won’t work.
“Everybody is going to die,” I said.
The wererat’s dark eyes fixed on me for a second and flickered to Curran. “Also, the People have got themselves a bloodsucker party. They’re camped about two miles behind us.”
“Good,” Curran said.
Andrea had come through. I never doubted she would.
A high-pitched scream erupted from the darkness of the street to the left. It tore through the encroaching night, a long, piercing shriek suffused with sheer terror. The shapeshifters tensed.
A man emerged from the gloom. Of average height, wrapped in a long cloak that flared with his every step, he strode through the snow, and as he walked, snowflakes rose in the air, swirling in glittering clouds. Gale. Erra’s undead with the power of air.
Another man leaped into view and crouched on the rim of the Mole Hole. Nude, covered in dense dark hair, he was slabbed with thick muscle like a weightlifter on a life-long steroid binge. Huge and hairy. Right. Here comes the Beast.
Erra had brought at least two. No matter how strong her powers were, controlling two at once had to be hard. It was likely they would mirror each other’s movements, acting in groups.
A third figure followed, a naked man so thin, his skin clung to his bones, outlining his ribs and pitiful chest. He turned his head, scanning the crater, and I saw his eyes, yellow, like egg yolks. Darkness.
The three undead froze, still as statues. Milking the entrance for every drop of the drama.
A long moment passed.
Another.
“Get on with it,” I growled.
Another. This was getting ridiculous.
The mist parted. Erra strode into view, head and shoulders above her undead. The light of the fires washed over her. A white fur cape streamed from her shoulders, the waterfall of her hair a dark stain on the pale collar.
A hush fell over the Mole Hole.
Erra’s gaze swept the crowd, taking in the archers, the Biohazard, the vans, the equipment, the audience up in the ruins nearby . . . She raised her arms to the sides. The cape slipped off her.
Glossy red fabric hugged her body. It clung to her like a second skin of pure scarlet. My aunt apparently had developed a fetish for spandex. Who knew?
Gale thrust his hand through his cloak. His fist gripped a large axe. The orange light of the flames shimmered along the ten-inch blade attached to a four-foot handle. The axe probably pushed six pounds in weight. A normal swordsman would be slower than molasses, but with her strength, it wouldn’t matter. She could swing it all day and then arm-wrestle a bear.
Gale turned on his heel, walked five steps to Erra, and knelt before her, offering the axe on the raised palms of his hands.
“We should clap or something,” Curran said. “She’s trying so hard.”
“Maybe we could scrounge up some panties to throw.” I adjusted the binoculars to focus on her face.
Erra raised her head. Power brimmed in her eyes. She looked regal, like some arrogant goddess poised above the chasm. I had to give it to her—my aunt knew how to put on a show. Would’ve been more dramatic if she had seven undead instead of three, but hey, at least she had some flunkies to bring.
Erra reached for the axe. Her fingers closed on the handle. She thrust it at the sky. With a hoarse scream, power pulsed from her like a shockwave, shaking the foundation of the ruins. It slammed into me, setting my blood on fire. Curran snarled. By the Mole Hole, people cringed.
Needles burst from Erra’s red suit. Veins of dark crimson spiraled up her legs. The fabric flowed, thickened, snapping into recognizable shapes: fitted curaise, spiked pauldrons, gauntlets . . .
It wasn’t spandex. Shit.
I leaned to Curran. “She’s wearing blood armor. It’s impenetrable to normal weapons, claws, and teeth.”
His eyes darkened. “If I hit her hard enough, she’ll still feel it.”
I nodded. “My sword will eventually soften the armor, but it will take time. She doesn’t know you’re here. If you wait, you could get in a good shot.”
My personal monster leaned closer. “Still trying to keep me from the fight?”
I slid my fingers along his furry cheek. “Trying to win. She made no helmet—she’s too vain.”
Ancient or not, she was still a human and he was a werelion. If he timed it right, he could crack her skull like an eggshell with a single blow.
“One shot,” he said.
“I’ll keep her busy. Just don’t bite her. Broken teeth aren’t sexy.”
He grinned, presenting me with a mouth full of finger-sized fangs. I rolled my eyes.
Erra took a step forward. For a moment she towered above the drop, light dancing over her scarlet armor, and then she plunged into the Mole Hole. Gale chased her, a soundless shadow gliding across the glassy floor. Darkness and Beast remained behind.
Twenty yards to the center and the bonfire.
Fifteen.
Ten.