Chapter 43
Forty-Three
“Stay with them!” Antoine yelled at Noah, then linked to Zoey as he headed for the stairs. “Report.”
“I’m in the panic room with Marcel. About thirty thralls coming through the backyard. The cameras at the front have been taken out, and we have a breach.”
Thirty? And more already inside. Was this Roberto, launching an attack in direct contravention of Curia rules?
“Activate the mines.”
From the rear of the house, several detonations erupted in quick succession with vicious concussive snaps, followed by debris pinging off the walls and windows. Then the screams started.
He had to stop them before they could reach Cally.
Antoine leaped the last six stairs, his shadows billowing around him, tux jacket flaring, and hit the living room door hard enough to rip it from its hinges.
It burst into the room, striking a glancing blow to a figure in black tactical gear with night-vision goggles over a half-face respirator, looking like an alien bug.
Antoine was there a fraction of a second later, ripping out his throat.
The air swirled murky with gas that irritated his eyes and skin, so dense he couldn’t see the ceiling, but shadowy figures moved within. Two bodies lay crumpled on the carpet, dressed not in black but in the casual clothes of his own thralls.
He kept his mouth closed, holding his breath as he sprang to the next intruder.
A sharp burst of automatic fire sent bullets spraying he knew not where, but his fist slammed into the man’s chest, sending him rocketing backward through the smashed windows, knocking more glass free.
Outside in the front yard, more dead lay on the ground, but other figures ran toward the house, unimpeded by return fire.
“Front machine guns?” he asked Zoey as he took two steps, the room blurring past, and snapped the neck of the next attacker.
“Both disabled.”
“Shutters?”
“Trying! They’re offline!”
Fuck.
“Fire at the smoke!” a shout rang out, and six weapons opened up as one, muzzles flashing in the night.
The air was filled with bullets and Antoine dived to the carpet, but not before two slugs found his side, and another slammed into his hip.
His bones were dense enough not to break, but it still hurt like hell.
He gritted his teeth against the pain. Bullets ripped through what was left of the windows, destroying the frames, and sprayed across the far wall.
The mantelpiece shattered under the fire, and books exploded in a burst of paper fragments.
There had been at least two more intruders in the room, but the hail of gunfire had dropped them, the attackers not hesitating to kill their own for the chance to hit him.
The gas stung his eyes, an acrid stench that burned in his nose despite his healing. He fought the urge to breathe—which was ironic. If he could manage without air for a few weeks, a few seconds shouldn’t matter too much.
Antoine low-crawled behind his wingback chair, its fabric shredded and stuffing spilling out in little white puffs.
His injured hip sent shooting pain down his leg, but at least it was cooperating.
Enough to get a foot beneath him, and he dashed for the open doorway.
To his right was the dining room, which Marcel always kept pristine, though no one ever used it.
He rushed in, ready to kill anyone he found.
A figure through the smoke crouched behind the upturned dining table, firing a submachine gun toward the window in controlled bursts.
A black respirator obscured his face, and on instinct Antoine almost tore out his throat, but his casual clothing and the direction of his weapon stayed his hand at the last moment.
It was Diego, one of his own thralls. Nearby lay three bodies, another of Antoine’s thralls and two in black, one missing his gas mask. And his weapon.
Bullets hit the dining room table, and Diego ducked low behind the thick mahogany.
Two grenades flew into the room, bouncing off the chairs that lay abandoned like fallen skittles, coming to rest on the carpet, still spinning.
Antoine swept them up, throwing them back with a flick of his wrist, then joined Diego behind the table as they detonated with enough concussive force to spray glass through the room.
Outside, men screamed.
Weapons opened fire, and they both hit the ground.
Diego pressed himself belly-down to the floor, arms over his head, weapon in his hands, waiting for it to end.
Antoine crouched beside him, bullets penetrating the wood above his head, sending splinters flying past. He kept an eye out for more grenades, but they probably wouldn’t try that again. He’d taught them their lesson.
The enemy had enough weapons to keep him pinned down, and when the fire slackened, running boots approached. Men forced their way through the windows, still shooting. But they were close enough for Antoine.
He slid his fingers beneath the table and came up with it in his hands, charging forward blindly toward where he could hear them.
It collided hard as someone yelled in pain, then Antoine dropped it and leaped over.
Three figures, two knocked dazed, more coming in.
But he flowed between them in a graceful swirl, hands flung out to snap a neck, push a weapon high, and drive claws through a throat.
Behind him, Diego was on his knees and firing.
The lights came back on, flickered twice, then held steady.
“Shutters are back online!” Zoey said through their link.
“Do it.”
Somewhere in the wall a motor whined high, and ballistic steel slid down over the windows.
Fast—by most standards. Yet not fast enough.
Two more men ducked beneath as the shutters closed, throwing themselves into the room only to be met with Antoine’s fists, but more rounds flew in with them, and he winced when one struck his upper arm.
Then the shutters slid into place, cutting out what little moonlight had lit the room. Not that Antoine cared. He brushed some of the shredded plaster off his tux jacket, then gave it up as a lost cause.
Diego clutched his chest and dropped to one knee.
“Are you all right?”
Blood welled up between his fingers. “Not dead yet.”
“Can you make it upstairs?”
“Yeah.” He gave a pained grunt. “I’ll camp at the top and make sure no one gets past me.”
“Good man. We’ll get you fixed up when this is over.”
“Outcast!” The shout came from the front of the house. “Where are you, Outcast?”
He didn’t recognize the voice, but no thrall would address him like that.
“Can you stand?” he linked to Diego, not wanting to make more noise than was necessary with another vampire nearby.
Diego staggered to his feet, leaning on Antoine’s offered arm, then stood by himself, clutching at the wound in his chest. He nodded.
Antoine crept to the open doorway of the living room, took a quick look, then pulled back fast. The smoke had faded only slightly, half-obscuring the figures climbing in through the window. But one of them unmistakably wore a suit, flanked on either side by armed thralls.
Tobias.
“Antoine, old man,” he called again. “I know you can hear me. Are you lying bleeding somewhere? We’ll find you.”
Diego pressed a cold steel ball into his hand. “Three-second fuse,” he said into Antoine’s mind.
“Stay out of this,” he sent back. “Keep Cally safe.”
“You know I will.”
Antoine worked the pin free as quietly as he could, holding the safety lever in place. Even so, metal scraped on metal, but Tobias hadn’t moved. He eased up his grip until the lever primed with a metallic click-clack.
A second passed. Another. Then he threw it into the room with a flick of his wrist.
“Outcast! Where are—” Tobias’s voice turned into a shout. “Grenade!”
Antoine had enough time to lament the damage to his nineteenth-century edition of Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then a gut-punching blast tore through the room, shrapnel exploding with a thumping detonation that threatened to shatter his eardrums.
But he didn’t let it slow him down. He was through the doorway as soon as the roar of the shockwave washed over him, leaping over the dead, looking for Tobias. Dust cascaded from the ceiling, adding to the smoke, shrouding the room.
“That was not very nice,” the vampire said, regaining his feet from behind what was left of the sofa.
Blood ran down his neck from one ear, his clothing was shredded, and two gashes marred his face.
But he stood straight, weight balanced. He curled his lip as he took Antoine in. “Little overdressed, aren’t you?”
“Evening event. I’d have invited you, but…” Antoine sniffed. “I don’t like you.”
“I’ve been waiting for this since you killed Matteo,” Tobias said, stripping away the remnants of his suit jacket without taking his eyes off Antoine. He pulled a long, curved blade from a sheath on his back. “Tonight, I will avenge him.”
“I see your eye has grown back since I punched it out.” Antoine raised a hand, finger and thumb extended, as if measuring a line. “Not quite straight though, is it?”
Tobias growled, fangs extended, then leaped across the room.
Antoine stepped forward to meet him, fist flashing out toward the other vampire’s head, but the blow hit nothing but air as Tobias ducked beneath it with a grace and speed Antoine hadn’t anticipated.
The dagger slashed for his midsection, but he twisted to the side.
The tip of the blade still scored through his dress shirt and into his skin, cutting deeply in a thin red line.
Then Tobias was past, and Antoine backed away, giving him space. “Hmm. Faster than Matteo.”
“A hundred years older, too.” Tobias lifted the dagger to his lips and licked the trace of Antoine’s blood that coated its tip. “Matteo wasn’t a fighter. You’ll find I am.”
Only seconds had passed since Antoine had thrown the grenade, but already the thralls outside were hammering at the shutters, forcing them open. He had to finish this fast, before he had more than he could deal with.
He swooped and picked up a fallen gun, but Tobias was on him before he could get the weapon raised.
The knife came down, and Antoine blocked with the barrel.
Tobias pivoted, denying him a shot, his other hand thudding into Antoine’s injured hip.
He hissed in pain, slow to pull his leg back, and Tobias swept his foot.
Antoine fell to one knee, still holding off the knife with both hands on the gun, its curved blade inching close as Tobias leaned his weight into it.
“I thought you’d be more of a challenge,” he said, managing to sound disappointed.
Antoine clenched his jaw, bracing himself as he pushed up. Tobias’s smug expression changed to one of concern as, despite all his effort, the blade was forced back.
“How are you so strong?” Tobias grunted, then abruptly wrenched the dagger away, shifted his weight, and kneed Antoine in the chest.
But Antoine had anticipated the move. He might lack the training of which Tobias boasted, but he had lived through too many wars, and too many fights.
He dropped the gun and grabbed Tobias’s leg, his fist hammering into the other vampire’s thigh.
Tobias grunted, his balance lost, and Antoine pushed to his feet, half lifting him.
Again his fist struck, this time taking Tobias in the face, the vampire barely rolling with the punch in time.
The blow knocked him back and he staggered, stumbling over a body on the floor.
Antoine grabbed the gun again, flicking off the safety even as he lifted it to his shoulder.
And in that moment, his bond to Cally surged—just like the night she’d been with the Order. It clawed at his focus, pulling him to her.
He fired anyway, but the shots went wide, Tobias diving to the side, only to kick off the wall and change direction, the blade extended. Once again, Antoine was forced to parry, but he did so half-distracted.
“Noah?” he linked. “What’s happening?”
There was no response.
“Diego?” The other thrall should’ve been upstairs too, but again, nothing came back through the link.
Outside, guns started firing—at what, Antoine didn’t know. Tobias’s attention snapped to the shutters, brow furrowing in surprise. The fist-shaped welt marring his cheek had split one of the gashes wider.
Antoine used the opportunity, again dropping the weapon to free his hands.
He grabbed Tobias’s wrist, and the other vampire grunted as he tried to pull free.
Antoine twisted sharply, turning the dagger point-first toward Tobias.
His other hand grasped Tobias’s, holding the dagger in place, and they strained against each other, pitting their strength.
Someone screamed outside, more shots were fired, then another scream.
“Seems like your thralls are in trouble,” Antoine ground out as he pushed the blade inch by inch toward Tobias’s stomach.
“Who’s your ally?” Tobias asked, teeth bared as he struggled to keep the blade from moving.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Wouldn’t I like to know. It must be Gabe—he hadn’t been far behind, after all—but if it was, he was alone. Doing pretty well against all those thralls.
“Doesn’t matter,” Tobias said. “We got what we came for.”
‘We’?
He wasn’t referring to his thralls. Vampires like him didn’t count them as worthy of mention.
His bond to Cally pulsed again, urgent and pulling at him. She knew he was fighting; she wouldn’t have done that if it wasn’t desperate.
“Noah!”
Still no answer. How could that be?
Tobias grinned, strained with the effort of keeping the dagger from piercing his stomach. “Are you just catching on?”
Antoine snapped his head forward, straight into the other vampire’s face, who jerked back too slow, his nose breaking with a satisfying crunch.
The damage was minimal, but it was only ever a ploy to distract—and it had worked.
Antoine grabbed his shoulder with one hand, then pulled and pushed simultaneously.
The dagger sank in deep, and Tobias gasped.
It wasn’t fatal, but the bond pulled him for a third time, Cally using her compulsion, and he couldn’t delay any longer. Antoine didn’t hang around to finish him off but leaped for the stairs, his shadows trailing behind him.
Diego lay lifeless at the top, eyes open and staring, his head twisted too far around. He had deserved better.
Antoine raced down the hallway, kicking off the far wall to sharply turn the corner.
But he was too late. Two thralls stood outside Cally’s room, weapons leveled.
How had they gotten past him?
The door was open. Someone was inside with her.
Then a woman screamed, the voice too full of anguish to recognize, the cry torn from her throat. Just one word, desperate, broken. “No!”