The second knife hit her in the belly. I tried to focus, to get my hands to stop shaking, but the third knife glanced off her cheek, leaving a long gash of gore. I stumbled forward to stop her, to get closer, to protect Wyatt, but she managed to grab the doorknob with bloody fingers, yank it open, and stumble inside. She was still in my expanded radius, still human, but getting away fast.
Fuck her. I went to Wyatt and dropped down onto my knees beside him. He was still human, too, but he was alive, though his breath came in short gasps.
Then I felt a third vampire suddenly pop into my radius, but before I could react Lucy Holmwood came backing through the doorway again, her hands raised. I was confused until I saw the gun come through the doorway, followed by the man holding it. My jaw dropped open.
“Dashiell?”
Chapter 38
He was dressed like an FBI agent in a movie: a black bulletproof vest over nice slacks and a white shirt that he’d unbuttoned at the collar. His face was grim but controlled. Lucy, who hadn’t removed the knives from her shoulder or stomach yet, was glaring at him with feral rage.
“How the hell did you get here so fast?” I blurted.
Dashiell shot me an amused look. “I have a plane, remember?”
“Ohhhhh.” I’d forgotten, actually. Dashiell didn’t advertise his wealth, and since I’d first met him I’d only heard of him using his private aircraft a handful of times, usually when Beatrice wanted to visit friends. I’d never even seen it.
Without moving the gun away from the enraged-looking Lucy, Dashiell gave the gravel area a quick look. “I see you’ve been busy,” he remarked, the way you comment on the traffic report.
“Uh, this was mostly her,” I said. Then a thought struck me, and I added in a weak voice, “Please don’t kill her.”
“What?” Now Dashiell did look at me, incredulous. “Surely you’re not going to suggest we take her to her sycophantic cardinal vampire for judgment?”
“Ohhhhh no. No. But I promised this dude he could kill her.” I gestured at Wyatt, who was conscious but breathing shallowly. “We made a deal.”
Dashiell just raised his eyebrows, looking a little doubtful. Wyatt seemed to be barely hanging on. Then, to my immense surprise, the vampire actually clapped one hand over the stake wound in his chest and climbed to his feet, with only a little help from me.
“Do you mind, sir?” he said to Dashiell.
My cardinal vampire looked at me. I nodded, letting my trust for Wyatt show on my face. Dashiell shrugged and handed the gun over. The cowboy kept one hand over his injury, and raised the weapon with the other.
“You fuckers, you have no idea what’s coming to you,” Lucy snarled. Her hands were clutched into fists, but she stood her ground. “You think we were the only skinners in town? The only ones looking for revenge? I’ve made calls. You have no idea what will happen to Las Vegas without us here keeping the balance—”
“Ms. Holmwood,” Dashiell said formally, “you are, in some ways, my responsibility. I turned Claire Clairmont, who turned you. I apologize for the pain and suffering my actions have apparently caused in this chain of events. But for the crime of murdering your fellow vampires, I sentence you to death.”
Lucy’s eyes widened. Dashiell nodded at Wyatt, who gritted his teeth and pulled the trigger.
I looked away. It felt a little cowardly, but my nightmares were crowded enough. When Lucy’s body hit the dirt, Wyatt stepped forward and put two more shots in her heart. I felt her presence blink out of my radius. She was just another corpse now.
It was over.
Wyatt turned to look at me, swaying on his feet. “Miss Scarlett?” he said faintly. “I’d be much obliged.”
“What? Oh.” I suppressed my radius, pulling it in tight around me. Wyatt became a vampire again, and his chest wound instantly started healing.
He smiled with tired relief. “Thank you.” He turned to Dashiell, holding out the gun, handle first. “And thank you, sir.”
Dashiell took it, watching Wyatt with those cautious eyes. “You are quite welcome. Scarlett has informed me that you’ve been of great service.”
Had I said that? I must have. Or Cliff had overheard me talking about it. It didn’t really matter now. I was kind of dizzy. “She also said you’d like her to help you move on,” he added carefully.
“Yes, sir,” Wyatt replied, guarded. “We made a bargain.”
Dashiell’s face grew stern. “Scarlett is my employee, and should not have agreed to kill another vampire without checking with me.”
“Hey—” I began, but Dashiell spoke over me.
“Moreover, I’m inclined to believe that enough vampires have died here tonight.” He gestured to the carnage around us. “I would therefore consider it a great favor if you would come back to Los Angeles with us and work in my service. For . . . let’s say a year. At that point, if you still want to die, I’m happy to get out of your way, and Scarlett will not be in trouble.”
Oh. I got it then. I wasn’t actually in trouble—Dashiell didn’t actually have much say in what I did on someone else’s territory, unless I threw his name around while I did it. But he was either trying to spare me or save Wyatt—maybe both—so I kept my mouth shut.
Wyatt eyed him for a long moment, considering the offer. “Please, Wyatt,” I put in. “Please don’t make me kill anyone else tonight.”
He turned and met my eyes. He looked so sad, and alone, and just . . . done. For a moment I almost considered opening my mouth and recanting, but I held my ground.
Finally, Wyatt said, “You didn’t have to come back to save me, Miss Scarlett, but you did.” To Dashiell, he added, “All right, Mr. Dashiell. I accept your proposal of a year of service. For her.”
I felt my shoulders sag with relief. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over the Holmwoods, but playing a role in Wyatt’s death would have haunted me. Now I had at least a year to not worry about it.
“Excellent. Now.” Dashiell glanced at me with aristocratic curiosity. “You are all wet. And you are not wearing shoes.”
I looked down at my clothes. My tee shirt, leather knife belt, and jeans were soaked through, as were my now-dirt-colored socks. “It’s a long story.”
Dashiell hesitated, and I was so sure he was going to ask me about Jameson, I could practically see it. Then he looked around and said, “I suppose the next item on our agenda is cleaning up this mess.”
I relaxed infinitesimally. Dashiell would have to ask eventually, of course—Jameson had helped the Holmwoods—but he was giving him a head start. The cardinal vampire sighed, considering the bodies all around us. “We’re going to need help to get this done by sunrise. I can make some calls.”
Make some calls. It was only in that moment that my brain began to process Lucy’s final words. “Oh my God.”
Both men turned to stare at me. “Dashiell, I need a car,” I said desperately. “Right now.”
Dashiell gave me the cell phone he was carrying—mine was still in a zillion pieces back at the hotel room—and the keys to a late-model Jeep. I had the feeling it wasn’t a rental, but I didn’t care. Heat blasting, I followed the Internet’s directions to the closest ER, which was in Boulder City. It was a manic, reckless drive, fueled by adrenaline and fear, and if the Jeep hadn’t been a four-wheel-drive vehicle, I would have flipped it at least twice.
Finally, I saw the signs for the hospital. I dumped the Jeep in the short-term ER parking and rushed inside, my head swiveling around. The waiting room wasn’t large. There was a cluster of worried-looking people sitting around, waiting for loved ones, but none of them seemed particularly agitated. It was the normal, barely tamed frenzy of any other night at the emergency room.
I spotted Cliff in a cluster of those fake wood and fake leather chairs, underneath an equally cheap TV. He was slumped down, his head propped on one palm. Blood streaked down the front of his shirt, but it didn’t look like it was his.
I rushed toward him as fast as my injuries would allow, my wet socks slipping on the linoleum. Cliff looked up, and I saw his face go flat, like he was trying to keep feelings off it for my sake.