More hands, clawing at her, pulling…no longer ghostlike, but terribly strong, holding her back as she fought and writhed, kicked, bucked, stabbed…
There was a poof, an explosion of dust. A blow to her side. A yank in one direction as she flailed out one more thrust with her stake at another creature. The chill, the cold enveloped her. Glowing red eyes and eerie shadows filled her vision.
And then all at once everything stilled. She was free.
Everything fell away, except…
Nicholas Iscariot stood in front of her.
TWENTY-FIVE
~ Two Unbearable Tasks ~
“Going somewhere?” asked Iscariot. He was impeccably dressed in a well-cut suit with a silky handkerchief in the pocket and a perfect tie. “So soon? When I haven’t had the chance to properly thank you for this?” His expression turned dark as he turned his head so Macey could see the livid red cross-shaped scar on his face.
She jolted at the sight of it, shocked at its raw, red ferocity, and yet pleased that he hadn’t left their battle in the morgue unscathed.
“I think it’s rather appropriate,” she replied, still panting and trembling from the aftershocks of her recent battle. Blood streamed from a wound on her arm, and she saw Iscariot’s eyes stray there, saw the way his mouth tightened. “All things considered.”
Somehow, she still held her stake. She took comfort in its smooth familiarity. One unexpected lunge, one well-placed thrust, and he was done. The confusion and dreaminess from swimming upstream through the ghostlike people had faded, but the presence of undead lingered as Iscariot’s minions surrounded both of them. Watching.
And as she faced him, every other distraction disappeared into the periphery. She tightened her grip on the stake.
“Don’t bother with that,” said Iscariot, focusing his glowing eyes on her weapon. “You won’t need it…yet.”
Macey looked away a heartbeat too late as he swung his gaze sharply up and to hers. Instantly, she felt the shimmering waver of their gazes locking, his eyes immediately tugging at her and luring her into the muzzy-headed lull that would lead to her demise. She kept her fingers tight on her weapon, her feet planted solidly on the ground, and fought to tear her eyes from his.
“Vioget tried to do it himself,” said Iscariot. He sounded a long way away. “Earlier this evening. But, of course, he didn’t succeed…”
Dreamlike, Macey found herself reaching toward her abdomen, her fingers crawling slowly over her belly. It was a battle for even the scarcest bit of movement, curbed as she was by Iscariot’s thrall. But when she got there at last and touched her vis bulla, even through the thin linen of her blouse, there was an answering surge of power. It shuttled through her, and, energized, she tore her gaze from Iscariot’s. Without hesitation, she leapt toward him, arm raised in a vicious thrust.
She slammed into the vampire, full body against his tall, slender, muscular one…but he twisted at the last minute and her stake plunged into his shoulder as their bodies collided. They tumbled to the ground, falling onto a row of plush seats, grasping and grappling with the other.
Macey’s stake was knocked from her hand, and she dimly heard it rolling toward the stage as Iscariot raked his sharp nails down along her arm. The linen split and so did her skin in a searing hot pain. Her blood burst forth as she twisted away, somersaulting over one of the seats, her arm burning.
By the time she landed on her feet, she had a second stake in hand and was half crouched, waiting for the next attack.
“Oh, don’t let’s belabor all of this,” said Iscariot. He stood near the stage, looking up at where Macey stood, halfway up the aisle. To her satisfaction, she saw that his clothing was askew and he’d lost the pocket handkerchief. He was a little out of breath, and a dark blossom was spreading over the front of his shirt and coat. “I see no reason to play around with you. It’s a waste of time and effort, and the result will be the same. Still, I expect you to provide me with a good bit of entertainment.”
“Isn’t that just like you, Nicholas,” she panted, swiping at the blood streaming from her arm. “Always walking away from a fight. I must frighten the hell out of you.”
The verbal mark clearly struck home, for his eyes flared richly hot and red, and even from her distance, Macey could see the telltale ring of blue around his irises. Only Judas Iscariot’s children had that eerie blue glow. It was evidence of their great and terrible power.
“And you aren’t brave enough to take me on all by yourself, either,” she said, gesturing to the hulking figures of his undead companions. They stood and sat about in the theater as if about to watch the feature. “You can’t handle me.”
“I don’t have the time or inclination to waste matching wits or stakes with you, my lovely Venator. But I did promise some amusement for my people—and since you managed to set free their meals and entertainment already, it’s up to you to provide the show. The others,” he said, flicking his wrist—and suddenly a few of the silvery-gray spirits dressed in twenty-year-old fashion were back, hovering around him as if they’d been summoned. “They were just a little experiment of mine. I quite liked how it turned out, but perhaps they need a little refining. They do have a rather chilly ambience, don’t they?” He moved his hand again, and the phantoms evaporated into small wisps of smoke.
From the corner of her eye, Macey saw an undead moving stealthily toward her from behind. Without turning her head, she grabbed the nearest seat and used the height to pivot toward the vampire. Poof! The stake met its mark and the curiosity seeker was gone.
Iscariot didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he was looking out into the darkness, beckoning with a slender white hand. “Now, don’t be concerned I’m expecting you to carry the show all on your own, Macey Gardella. That wouldn’t be fair now, would it?”
He’d stepped onto the stage, and a spotlight blinked on, shining down on him. Something moved in the shadows, and as Macey watched with growing apprehension, a long rope descended from the catwalk above. Something—no, someone—dangled from the end of the rope. Another light came on, but even before it illuminated the figure, Macey had recognized it.
Him. Grady.
It took every bit of control she had to keep still and quiet, to not react—although everything inside her screamed Nooooo. Her very muscles, her thoughts, her limbs and digits—everything shrieked at her to leap down there, to vault over the chairs and launch herself onto the stage in a blaze of fury and horror and protect him. Save him.
But she didn’t. Instead, she stood there. Waiting. Observing. Forcing herself to keep her mind clear and open and ready. Because surely that was precisely what Iscariot wanted her to do: to attack. To protect. To spin into action without thinking.
She couldn’t tell whether Grady was conscious. She did see blood…staining his throat and the open front of his shirt, which was coatless, untucked, and torn. He hung from his wrists, which were tied together with thick ropes. His head sagged forward a little, and his feet didn’t quite touch the ground.
He didn’t move. There was no sign of breathing or struggle from him.
Macey turned her attention to Iscariot, careful not to meet his eyes directly but with enough boldness that he knew she was not cowed.
“Is that it?” she asked. “You’ve got a single, measly mortal man that, presumably, you want me to save? If he isn’t past saving already. That’s all you’ve got to offer in the form of entertainment, Nicholas? Why don’t you and I go a few rounds instead—you and me, without your goons to protect you? That would be a sell-out performance.”
She was walking toward him down the aisle, toward the stage where her stake had rolled, figuring that the closer she got to Grady, the easier it would be to help him…whenever the opportunity arose. “Why should I even try to free him?” She nodded to Grady. “For all I know, you’ve already turned him undead…which means there’s no sense in my exerting myself anyway. He’s already lost.”
She was five, maybe six rows from the stage now. She didn’t see her other stake, but it had to be nearby.
A few vampires had moved closer to her, but none of them appeared ready to pounce. Some even chose seats, as if to watch the outcome. That made her a little nervous.
Iscariot smiled, and the pure glee in his expression was what frightened Macey more than anything else. “Never fear, my sweet Venator. He’s quite alive, and still very mortal.” He walked over to Grady. “Let the lovely Venator bitch know you’re still alive,” Iscariot said, grabbing a handful of hair to lift Grady’s head. “So she knows you’re worth fighting for.”
Grady shifted and moaned, and Macey saw his eyes fluttering. She also watched carefully, for, thanks to her wayward stake, Iscariot was bleeding profusely from the shoulder. Grady didn’t seem to notice or be attracted to the fresh blood, which she took as a good sign.
So far.
“Now,” said Iscariot. “Perhaps a bit of an hors d’oeuvre is in order?” He bared his fangs and plunged them viciously into the outside of Grady’s upthrust arm.