“Children, my dear children, look who has come! The newest member of the Alliance.” Louisa moved away from the hearth as she talked, strolling casually in Tara’s direction. Hands on hips, she surveyed Tara. “She doesn’t look the part, does she? A tall, slim blond ... not much muscle to her. Ah, and that face! Such a lovely face, fine features, excellent bone structure, actually. And what does she do for a living? She’s an artist. An artist, can you imagine? Not a police officer ... a young service woman. Ah, well, your grandfather let you down. He might have seen to it that you had fencing lessons, or something in the new Asian methods of defense. Even some kick-boxing might have stood you well. But an artist ...
what are you going to do, dear? Paint us all to death?”
Tara ignored her words. “Where is my cousin, Ann?”
She was amazed to see a look of annoyance briefly cross the woman’s features. “You’ll see her soon enough. But first...”
Louisa had been purposely drawing her attention. In the nick of time, Tara realized that the couple from the bed had risen from their lethargy. Both of the women hovered behind her.
The stake wouldn’t help her when it was two against one. She gripped her grandfather’s old war sword in both hands and swung around in an arc. The razor sharp steel cut across the midriff of the first and the waist of the second. Neither was dead, but they both fell back.
The man with the beard had risen; he too was coming toward her. She held the sword at the ready as he approached her, her heart sinking. She had managed against them one by one. She had been methodical.
Stake the creatures, remove their heads. But she couldn’t do it when they were coming at her from all sides.
And now, her arms were burning. She was tiring. Muscles not accustomed to such movement were beginning to scream and groan. She had to ignore it, or she would not survive. As the man came toward her, she decided on the offensive, lunging forward to pin him in the stomach with the sword. She missed, and the sword struck bone, bringing a smile to the man’s face. One of the women behind her, wounded but alive, and all the more furious for her wound, was coming back. Tara spun again, trying to inflict all the damage she could with the sword.
Arms suddenly slipped around her. The man who had been stroking the blond’s hair had come up, and she hadn’t been prepared. His fingers closed around her wrist, like hot iron biting into her flesh. She was desperate to hold on to the sword, but she couldn’t. She let it fall, but as she did, she grasped quickly beneath her coat for the stake, ramming it backward with all her strength. She heard him hiss with fury and pain; he fell back from her. But in front of her, one of the others was already reaching for the sword.
“Yes, yes, disarm her! Guillermo, don’t whine so, you will survive, get the stake now, come, come... she mustn’t be carrying those weapons when we go to find her cousin.” The room suddenly seemed to become a rage of shadows. A great, rising, flapping sound began to fill the air, as if a host of giant winged creatures was descending. They were everywhere, all around her. Her hair was being pulled, torn. Wild breezes seemed to rip around her. She was surrounded, and they were touching her everywhere.
She saw shadows, faces, wings, hands, reaching, grabbing. She held on to the wooden stake as if it were a lifeline, but fingers were tearing at hers, forcing them one by one from her grip upon the wood. At last, the stake clattered to the ground. Both her main weapons were gone.
The flapping subsided. She stood alone, coat torn and ragged, hands empty.
Louisa approached her again.
“Ah ... well, I think just a taste of your blood for the moment. Then, I’ll bring you to your cousin. And you can watch ... while I watch as well, as she is finished. Consumed, of course. Such a delicious young thing. But then, I suspect, you will be even better.
Despite herself, Tara felt her eyes locking with Louisa’s. The woman was smiling, so aware of her power. Coming closer, and closer.
Tara forced her mind to work. And as Louisa stood just before her, hands resting on her shoulders to pull her in and bare her throat, Tara reached quickly for one of her last weapons.
A small paint gun, loaded with holy water.
She brought it up to Louisa’s face. And fired.
Louisa screamed and shrieked, the sound of a thousand banshees wailing in the night. Her hands flew to her face, and she shouted out in rage, “Kill her, kill her!” The flapping sounded again. Rising in a cacophony. Surrounded, Tara began to spin around wildly, aiming the water wherever she could.
At best it was a stalling measure. She would lose ... the shadows hovered closer and closer. Screams rose and fell. Hands and arms were on her, tearing at her ...
Then, the first of them was wrenched away. She heard a thunderous noise as a body went slamming against a far wall. There was a second sound ...
The body’s head landing in the wake of the corpse.
She turned, her fingers still on the paint gun.
“Don’t aim it at me!” came a command, and she turned quickly again, shaking.
She was no longer alone. Lucian had come.
He had freed her from the grip of the bearded man, who now lay in pieces against the wall. She had a brief moment to retrieve her sword as Lucian reached for the next enemy; she didn’t watch, she didn’t want to see, as he dispatched the woman.
Instead, she ducked and grasped the sword from the floor, and scrambled onward, desperate to procure the stake as well. As she did so, one of the women went flying above her head. She turned, there was someone else, stalking her like a zombie. She raised her sword. A hand caught her arm. She turned again in dismay and terror.
But it was Lucian.
“No,” he said softly. “He’s still alive.”
He stepped forward and sent a fist against the young man’s face, causing him to crumple to the floor in a silent heap.
The room had gone still, except for one groaning figure on the floor. Lucian took the sword from Tara’s hand. He looked down. With a single, forceful sweep, he lopped off the man’s head.
Shaking, Tara stood still. Lucian looked around. “She’s gone. She’s managed to get by,” he said wearily.
He started for the door. “Are you coming?”
Jacques did not look well. Katia remained in her keening state. Jade DeVeau felt her muscles tighten and ache, but she remained at her post. She was ready. Vials of holy water littered the desk in front of her.
She had torches ready, should she need defense of fire. She had fashioned more stakes from pieces broken off chairs.
Regrettably, antique chairs, but then, their lives were in danger.
There was nothing for the longest time ...
And then ...
She heard a whining sound, coming from the front.
Jacques, white, tense, and gripping the arms of his chair, sighed softly. “It’s Eleanora. The dog. She’s hurt.”
He started to rise.
“Sit, please, Jacques,” she said softly. She grabbed one of the stakes, and slowly made her way from the library through the great hall, and to the door. She hesitated, still. Then she heard the soft whining again. She opened the door. Indeed, it was the shepherd. Bloodied, limping, yet wagging her tail. Jade smiled. “Good girl, brave girl, come in, I’ll bandage you.” She bent down to pet the dog. Then she screamed, for a huge shape suddenly came lumbering toward her. She started to slam the door.
“Jade! It’s Rick, for the love of God!”
She threw the door open.
Rick was more beat up than the dog. And he was carrying the body of a man over his shoulder. “Let me in, quickly!” Rick said.
Jade did so, hesitating, looking out into the night.
“Jade!” Rick said.
She felt the strange breeze that touched her face.
Quickly, she shut and locked the door, and turned.
Jacques let out a hoarse call.
Jade went flying back to the library.
Lucian DeVeau went through the door, heading for the hallway.
Tara, numbed, looked around her. She stared at the empty doorway, then sprang to life, scrambling over the fallen to follow Lucian.
She saw him moving, the sway of his leather coat, ahead of her in the hall. She quickened her pace, trying to catch up. One of the doors burst open and it seemed that a harpy flew from it, a scraggly, white-haired old witch of a woman, landing upon her like a giant chimp. She struggled against the strength of the creature, again desperately trying to avoid the slash of the snapping fangs. A second later, the creature was torn from her.
Lucian reached a hand down to her, pulling her to her feet.
“You have to expect things like that,” he told her, and started walking again. She followed in his footsteps. As they moved along, a second door opened. She swung around with her stake in a death grip once again. A giant of a man stepped from the room, exceedingly tall, with long, gleaming blond hair. She gasped, getting ready to strike.
Lucian set a hand upon her arm and shook his head. “This is Ragnor, Tara. He’s with us. What did you find?” The question was directed to the blond man.
“Three, novices, dug up and released, I’m assuming. Mindless, unintelligent creatures; thugs from another century—nothing much.”
“The foot soldiers, more than expendable,” Lucian said softly, echoing Tara’s earlier thoughts to a T.
He started down the hall again, the tall man at his side. Tara followed, hurrying to keep up with their strides. “They’ve got... like a nerve center?” she asked, gasping for her each breath. “And these...
people... or things ... are like the outer defenses?”
“Yes.”
“And there’s a room, another room with a hearth and a sofa and ...” She broke off, stopping where she stood. “It’s where they have Ann, and it’s where they want us to come?” Lucian glanced at her, a wry but grim smile beginning to curl his lips. He nodded. “Yes. You see, you didn’t want to believe, but it is you, and you are ... Alliance.” He stopped as well, staring at her. “Remember, you have a strength you don’t even know.” She nodded, and moistened her lips. “Where is Brent?”