Chapter 11 #2
Careful to drink only enough blood to weaken the mage, Luke brought him to the far side of the roof and left him lying on the ground.
He checked for a cellphone, found it, and sent it sliding across the roof to the other side.
The mage passed out, which wasn’t great, but Luke had saved Clint from at least one angle.
I can’t let this weigh on my conscience.
He was on the wrong side. He could have killed me. Or Clint. And he’s still alive.
Certain the mortal was down for the count, Luke went to the edge of the building closer to the target and looked out.
Clint had disappeared from sight, but Luke could trace his movements through their connection.
The knowing was a strange sensation. Luke had drank from others while he was so hungry, but he’d never felt a donor like this before.
If this is just a small piece of his power or spirit or whatever, no wonder he walks around like an unstoppable inevitability.
Luke scanned the roofs of nearby buildings for any other lookouts and spotted one.
The distance was a few hundred feet—far too large to jump.
Running down one building and climbing the next would take time. He was faster, but he wasn’t that fast.
Rumors said that older, more powerful vampires could travel by shadow. Luke had seen Anton, the lover of the coven’s master, do so once. But the older vampires never explained how they did it. There had to be some way to cross the distance, some way to use the shadows.
Luke reached out his hand and opened his senses to the magic in the area around him. The ongoing ritual was a constant drumbeat, louder than any heartbeat. Clint was a high-intensity flashlight. The world was a cacophony of sights and sounds.
But the shadows were empty. No magic, nothing particularly interesting in them.
With a groan, Luke stepped up on the building’s ledge.
He tossed one more glance at the faraway building.
He’d wasted time trying to figure out something clever.
But it could have been worth it if I could just poof over there.
He glanced down, preparing to jump and bracing for the impact already.
He was strong enough that his body would barely break, but—
But he was also glimmering. He spun to look at the fallen mage, but the person was still unconscious.
It wasn’t some spell from him. Frowning, Luke tried to brush the sparkling mess off, but as he did, he realized his hands were covered in it.
Wait, is it coming from me? Somehow, drinking Clint’s blood must have granted him some magic.
Any spell was merely intent, willpower, and belief.
Luke fixed his gaze on the distant building again.
I don’t have a lot of time. This has to work.
He had the magic; all he had to do was believe.
He pictured disappearing from the spot he where he was in a cloud of shadow and reappearing on the other rooftop.
He poured his want into it. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.
A buzzing filled his gut like the zinging he felt when he’d run across Clint’s wards. He leaned into the feeling.
Shadows stretched up from the area around his feet. They wrapped around him. Work. Faster.
His ears popped as he blinked. The shadows dissipated as quickly as they’d appeared.
Luke was standing behind the mage on the other rooftop. I did it!
But he didn’t have time to relish his victory as the mage before him had their wand out and was preparing to cast at Clint.
Luke ran forward and caught the mage around the torso.
His throat ached, so he bit down. The mage yelped and fought, but Luke had the greater strength.
In seconds, the mage passed out. Luke lowered them down.
A particularly loud blast of magic on metal announced that Clint was working his way into the run-down factory. Pick up the pace, Luke.
The jump to the factory’s rooftop wasn’t a far one.
Luke went to the far side of the building’s roof and took a running leap to the factory.
He landed with too much momentum, crashing and rolling for a few feet.
Grimacing, he checked his gear in his discreet pockets as he got back on his feet.
His vial of Stills water was intact. The rest of his gear was banged up, but nothing felt broken.
The cult hadn’t stationed any guards on top of the factory’s roof. Not sure if that was a bad or good sign, Luke headed for the nearest skylight.
Down below, Clint walked into the room with an undeniable authority pouring off him. Luke knelt down beside the window. Bursting through it was the opposite of sneaking in. Was there another way in? Something easier than trying whatever spell he’d pulled off before?
There were other skylights, some of them with broken panes. He couldn’t cling to surfaces, though, so those entrances would result in the same noticeable drop.
Miranda revealed herself. She and Clint exchanged words.
Then four others from the ritual broke off and focused their attention on Clint.
A sadness filled Clint, though he kept his head held high and his staff at the ready.
Luke held a hand over his own heart as the swarm of emotion came to him.
He doesn’t want to kill them. He doesn’t want to hurt anyone.
They’re ready to tear him to pieces, and he’s wishing they would have laid down their wands.
With Clint drawing everyone’s focus toward the entrance, Luke saw an opportunity. He scurried to the farther side of the factory and found a broken skylight. The rumbles and trembles of magic warned him that Clint had engaged the others in battle. Now or never.
Luke dropped down to the concrete floor.
His right leg cracked, but he was ready for that and stifled his scream of pain.
By the time he stood straight, his leg had mended enough for him to walk.
Two seconds after that, he was healed. Bonus of being well-fed.
He darted forward, using the leftover machines as cover until he ran out of them.
The few lights flickered as the air was choked with magic. Brilliant rays of various colors illuminated the walls. And still, three of the mages continued to chant.
Luke caught sight of Clint. One of the mages facing him was crumpled on the ground, but he was outnumbered. A shimmering field was protecting him, but one of Miranda’s arcane bolts sliced through it and hit his hip.
I should go to him. Luke took a step.
The pungent scent of sulfur grew stronger, but rather than being an overwhelming, noxious smell, it was starting to have a draw like an enticing cologne. Clint’s desire to stop the ritual was a klaxon call, keeping Luke alert. Otherwise, he might have tumbled toward that siren call.
We’re running out of time. So, gritting his teeth, Luke turned his attention to the cultists continuing their attempt to free Valgaruz.
He sprang on the nearest and drove his dagger deep into their shoulder.
The mage cried out but continued chanting.
Luke tore into the mage’s neck with his fangs, leaving long gashes.
He pushed away the smell of copper and the pulsing hope to see the demon free that burst across his mind.
He was sensing the mage’s wants. And fuck is there something malicious lurking inside that fucker.
Clint unleashed lightning from the end of his staff. The current crashed into several of the mages but didn’t stretch far enough to reach the remaining chanters.
Moving with liquid speed, Luke grabbed the nearest cultist and attempted to shove her backward from the circle.
She held her ground and glared at him. The power rolling off her was a tide threatening to pull him under.
Luke swayed, shook his head, and lunged for her throat.
She lost her concentration as he sank his fangs into her.
She put her hand in the center of his chest. Her lust for flame broadcasted to him the split second before she finished her spell, and he dodged the worst of the gout of fire.
Snarling, he pulled a lockpick from his sleeve and threw it straight at her throat.
It caught her under the chin and went through, damaging her windpipe. She fell to her knees.
A tremor shook the floor, and a red smoke poured out from a crack in the ebony box. An arcane bolt flew past Luke’s head. Clint was still standing, still fighting, but he wasn’t gaining ground on the remaining chanter.
Luke began to run around the outside of the circle toward the last chanting mage.
“No you don’t!” Oz snapped. He dropped his wand and threw out his hands.
A crunch like tinfoil tightly balled inside a fist scratched along the inside of Luke. Two thick purple-black tendrils appeared on either side of Oz. They ripped through the air and grabbed Luke by his ankles and wrists. Their touch numbed his feet and hands and burned at the same time.
The crack in Valgaruz’s box opened wider. Dark red fingers tipped in sharp black nails poked their way out.
“You don’t have to die,” Oz rasped. His eyes were wide, filled with a manic confidence. “Valgaruz will like you. He’ll protect you in the world to come. You’ll like his realm. All the pleasures you could want. All you have to do … is submit.”
On the last two words, Oz gestured, and the tentacles dragged Luke down to his knees. The burning numbness spread up Luke’s arms and legs, reaching his knees and elbows.
Life as a lapdog would be easier. The demon might protect Luke from Dawnshadow, or he might hand him over at the first opportunity.
But Luke would be alive. He’d be under the thumb of someone powerful, forced to do their bidding through magic or paying off a debt.
Something whispered in his mind, You would finally have value in the world.
You would finally be of use instead of leeching everyone you ever met dry.