Too many of the Elders were slow and out of shape. Out of practice. They had forgotten how to fight.
Mimi trembled as she grasped her sword, currently the size of a needle that she’d stowed in her sequined evening bag. It was her only chance to get out of the house alive. But she was outnumbered. She would not be able to cut her way to freedom. Not now. There were too many of them for her to take alone. God, their numbers! Who knew they had so many? Where had they come from? She would have to hide. It was her only hope for survival.
She inched her way out of the dining room to the hallway, picking her way through to an exit. So far she had escaped notice. Until she did not.
“Azrael.” The voice was cold and deadly.
Mimi turned to see Nan Cutler standing behind her, holding a sword to her chin. The Warden had lost her old-crone disguise—she looked as young as Mimi, and infinitely strong. Her white hair was a now a burnished gold, and the raven stripe a glossy river of black.
“You!” Mimi accused. But the Cutlers were one of the original seven. One of the oldest and most respected families. Nan Cutler was Harbonah. The Angel of Annihilation. They had fought together side by side during the first inquisition, when Michael had commanded a heavenly army and had decimated their renegade vampire foes. “But why?” she asked, turning quickly and unsheathing her blade, knocking away Nan’s sword.
In answer, Nan slashed forward, slicing the air where Mimi had stood.
Her eyes flashed. “You do not have to perish,” she said, lunging forward.
Mimi grunted, parrying with a swift counterattack.
“You could join us. Join your brothers and sisters who are still fighting the good fight.”
The stupid witch actually thinks I would join their side? After everything Abbadon and I went through to secure this fragile peace we’ve found on Earth? Mimi thought.
“You are one of us. You do not belong to the Light. It is not your true nature, Death-bringer.”
Mimi refused to reply and instead focused on locating Nan’s vulnerability. They battled through the room, which was starting to fill with dark smoke.
They’re burning down the house, Mimi thought, panicking. Burning it with black fire, the only kind that could destroy the sangre azul . . . the immortal blue blood that ran in their veins. Destroy the blood, destroy the vampire . . . memories lost forever. True death for their kind.
Nan cut Mimi’s arm with her blade, her weapon finally drawing first blood.
Bitch!
That hurt!
Mimi forgot to feel afraid, and sprung forward with no thought to her safety. She screamed a battle cry, one that came to mind only at that instant. One that Michael himself had used to rally his armies to battle.
“NEXI INFIDELES!” she roared. Death to the Faithless! Death to the Traitors! She was Azrael. Golden and terrifying. Her hair and face and sword aflame with a blazing, incandescent light.
And with a powerful sweep she cleaved the false Warden in two.
Then she staggered backward. Black smoke was filling her lungs. She had to get out of there. She felt her way to the front door and yanked it open—just as a black-haired man was entering from the other side. In seconds he held a knife to her throat. Her heart dropped. The man holding her captive was Kingsley Martin. The Silver Blood traitor. This was her doom.
FORTY
Lawrence had insisted he drive, and as they made their way along the dark curvy highway, Schuyler couldn’t help but notice the tiny, flickering lights against the hillside and how beautiful they were. “Yeah, but they’re probably from the slums, which means the electricity infrastructure wasn’t set up correctly. And is a potential fire hazard,” Oliver pointed out. Schuyler sighed. The city was rich in juxtapositions: poverty and wealth, crime and tourism in a heady, dizzying mix. It was impossible to admire the beauty without also noticing the ugliness. They rounded a particularly sharp corner when Lawrence suddenly pulled the car to the side of the road and slumped forward in his seat. “Grandfather!” she cried, alarmed. She saw his eyes begin to dart back and forth, as if he were asleep but not asleep. He was receiving a sending.
When it ended, his face was ashen. For a moment Schuyler thought he was going to faint.
“What happened? What’s wrong?”
Her grandfather shook out his handkerchief and pressed it to his forehead. “That was Edmund Oelrich before he passed. The entire Conclave. Massacred. Those who were not burned were taken.”
“They’re all dead?” Schuyler gasped. “But how? Why . . . ?” She clutched his arm. “What do you mean, they’re all dead?”