Magic Strikes(96)

her scream.

«If you can take out the bloodsucker, I'll make you safe for the rest of the fight, provided the

magic holds.»

«How?»

«Blood ward. It locks all magic out, including your own. You cast the curse and jump into the

ward. Once you step into it, it will keep you locked in. You won't be able to exit without my help.

But nobody else will be able to enter.»

Dali bit her lip. «What if it doesn't work?»

«You just have to trust me.»

She considered it for a long moment. «Okay.»

Jim shook his head. «Consider taking a fourth.»

«No,» Curran and I said at the same time. I didn't want any more friends on my conscience.

Doolittle sighed.

I rose. «This will take a bit of practice.»

THE VAMPIRE CROUCHED BY CYCLONE, OOZING necromantic magic. Jim was right.

This one was old. No sign of it ever walking upright remained. It waited on all fours, like a dog that

had somehow sprouted humanoid limbs tipped with stiletto claws. The last lingering echoes of its

humanity had faded long ago. It had become a thing, so revoltingly alien and frightening it sent

shivers down my spine.

Not an ounce of fat remained on its frame. Its thick skin clung so tightly to its steel-cable

muscles that it resembled wax poured over an anatomy model made by a demented sculptor. Sharp

bone protuberations broke the skin along its spine, creating a jagged ridge. Its nose was missing,

and not even a slit remained. Massive, lipless jaws jutted from its sickening face, revealing a forest

of fangs embedded in crimson gums. A thick horn protruded from the back of its deformed skull. Its

eyes glowed dark hungry red, like rubies thrust into the skull of a demon.

I found the sharp, painful light of its mind and waited in the shadows. If Dali failed, I would

crush it, whether it gave me away or not.

Next to it rose a troll. A hulking creature, he stood almost nine feet tall. His skin was dark

brown, uneven, and gnarled, interrupted by patches of rougher brown. A single adjective came to

mind: thick. Thick tree-trunk legs, ending in flat, round stumps of elephantine feet. Thick

midsection with a round stomach that looked too hard to be termed «gut.» Thick chest. Massively

broad shoulders slabbed with thick muscle. Thick neck, bigger than my thigh. Thick, round head

resembling a stump with a flat face. Eyes sunken deep into dark sockets, a stunted Persian cat nose,

and a narrow slash of a mouth. Two tusks protruded from his lower jaw, stretching his mouth into a

smirk. He looked as though he'd been carved out of a gargantuan tree trunk and allowed to petrify.

Screw the spear; he'd break a chain saw.

On the far left a man waited. He was young and dark-skinned, his skull clean shaven. He had the

build of a gymnast, wore nothing, and carried two identical swords. I'd never seen any quite like

them. Bastard children of a scimitar and a katana, they had the narrow slickness of the Japanese

blade and a slight curve with a flare at the point inherited from the Arabic sword. Three feet long

and an inch and a half at the narrowest, the blades were both lively and devastating.

As we entered the Arena, the man changed. A pale sheen coated his strong features. His shape

expanded with gray thickness. Armor formed on his shoulders: a textured pauldron on his left

shoulder, a thinner one on his right. Huge wrist guards clamped his forearms. A wide metal belt

sheathed his loins, dripping down a narrow metal cloth to protect his testicles. His body glistened

with moisture and dried in an instant, snapping into sleek gray smoothness. Everything but his eyes

was metal. The silver golem.

The swords pointed in my direction. Just what I needed: a tin man on steroids. Wandering

around looking for a heart and singing merrily just didn't do it for the young and ambitious metal

turks nowadays. This dude wanted my heart, still beating and bloody, carved freshly from my chest.

We paused on the edge of the sand. The magic was in full swing. Dali swallowed.

I carried Slayer and a tactical sword I had stolen from the Pack's armory during the flare. I

handed the tactical sword to Curran. «Hold it for a second, please?» He took it and I sliced the back

of my hand with Slayer. A nice, shallow cut. The blood swelled in red drops. Dali winced and

turned away. I let the blood run down the blade's edge. My father and Greg both were screaming in

their graves. I drew a two-foot-wide circle in the sand, leaving a narrow opening, pulled out a piece

of gauze, and squeezed my hand, saturating the gauze until it dripped.

I handed the gauze to Dali. She put it onto her clipboard and stood in front of the circle's

opening. It would take her a second and a single step back to enter the blood ward.

I slapped a piece of med tape onto the cut. «Just like we practiced. Do what you have to do with