Unknown: Scorched

He steadied her, and she could feel the remnants of magic in his touch. She’d broken her own magic with an unwise spell when she was still a teenager, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel power.

She was picking up far more than the few traces clinging to Reynard’s long, strong fingers. Right now she felt power spilling over her like sand in a windstorm, stinging in a thousand tiny bites. Whoever—whatever—had been shooting at them was hurt, and not human.

She thought again about her daughter, and knew fear.

Reynard took a step forward. Ashe grabbed his arm. “You had only one shot in your musket. I should go first.”

He pulled what looked like a very modern Smith & Wesson—it was hard to tell in the dark—from a holster hidden at the small of his back. “I could reload. I also carry a backup. As Mac is so fond of saying, shit happens.”

The obscenity sounded wrong coming from him. Of course, every assumption she’d made about him so far that night had been off base. Not a good thing when they were supposed to be covering each other’s backs.

Reynard started up the stairs, showing just how good his night vision was. Ashe brought up the rear. There was an iron railing to her right, but that was her gun hand, so she left it alone. Her skin crawled, not just with power but with vertigo. Normally she didn’t mind heights, but all that changed when she couldn’t see where she was putting her feet. She felt for the steps and counted each one. Good to know how many steps she’d climbed in case she had to reverse course in a hurry. Thinking you were at the bottom of the pitch-dark stairs when you weren’t could be a problem.

More plants and bushes grew on the rock spire. Leaves brushed her face like slick, green fingers. She fought not to jump, stumble, and finish the night with a broken leg.

They reached the landing, where the stairs took a sharp turn. Overhead was a wash of stars, thick and bright because the gardens were outside the city. Above the canopy of trees, the moon gave a thin wash of light. Ashe saw Reynard hold up his left hand, then point. His right hand was curled around his weapon. Ashe grasped her own gun with both hands, reassured by its cold, heavy weight.

They went up the last dozen stairs. At the top was a kidney-shaped platform surrounded by an iron railing. It was like another small garden. The flower bed, maple tree, and bench would have made for a lovely resting place in daylight. At night, it was eerie.

Reynard turned right and swept his gun downward to point at the fallen shooter. Ashe aimed at the figure sprawled facedown on the ground. He was twisted as if an effort to duck had spun him around.

Vampire. Now that she was close, Ashe could almost taste his essence. His energy was pouring needles of power over her like the skitter of insect feet on her skin. She glided to the left of the figure, Reynard to the right, until they stood on opposite sides of their quarry.

What happened next depended entirely on the vamp. Why had he shot at her? She wanted an explanation. She’d be happy to keep him alive—vibrantly undead?—at least long enough to question him. Longer if he played nice. Then again, he’d tried to kill her already. If he attacked, there’d be no messing around.

The vamp was male, medium height, dressed in jeans. A scatter of weapons and a tripod were strewn around him. She smelled blood, but saw only a shining stain on the back of his jacket. It was too dark for color. He was motionless, but still she kicked his rifle out of reach. It was a sniper’s piece—night scope and all the fancy fixings.

“Weapon says he means business,” she said softly.

“It seems your enemies put forward their best efforts,” Reynard replied.

“I’m so flattered.” Ashe took another quick inventory of the vamp. Short leather boots. The glint of a fancy watch. Dark hair, collar length. “Y’know, at first I wondered why someone would shoot from a place with only one escape route.”

As she spoke, she shifted the Colt to her left hand and reached into the pocket that ran up the outside of her right thigh. Familiarity, certainty, washed through her. Slaying wasn’t her happy place, but it was one she knew inside and out.

Ashe pulled out a long, straight, sharp stake. “Then it came to me. Vamps can fly. And then I thought of another thing. I was called out here on an emergency. How did an assassin know where I’d be? Somebody’s been doing some planning, and I’m going to want names.”

The vampire struck. The speed was breathtaking; he lifted himself from a facedown sprawl to a frontal attack in less than a second—but she’d been expecting that. Ashe felt the thing’s body pound into the stake, using its own momentum to drive the weapon home. All she had to do was brace her feet against all that brute force and lean into it.

The vamp flailed its arms, trying to change direction and pull away, trying to slash and bite and escape all at once. She’d judged the vamp’s height fairly well, but the stake had entered just below its heart. Ashe felt her feet skid on the stone beneath her, sliding far too close to the iron railing and the sheer drop beyond.

Reynard yelled, grabbing the vamp from behind. In a flash of moonlight, she could see the vampire’s face— features twisted in pain and anger. Reynard was managing to pin its arms, something no human should have been able to do. That seemed to scare the monster even more than the stake.

Ashe twisted her weapon, driving upward. The vampire gasped. She stopped a hairsbreadth from skewering him, praying Reynard’s strength would hold. She was taking a risk, pausing like this, but a chance at information was worth it.

“Why were you shooting at me?” she demanded.

It bared fangs, giving a rattling hiss.

“Scary, but I’ve seen better,” she said.

Reynard did something that made the vampire wince. “Answer.”

“Abomination!” it snarled, and gave one last lunge at her.

Last being the operative term. Ashe slammed the stake upward just before his fangs could reach her flesh.

The vampire was suddenly deadweight. Reynard let the body drop, wood still protruding from its chest.

“Shit.” Ashe looked down at the vampire. She knew she would feel plenty later—anger, triumph, regret, pity, self-justification—but at the moment she was blank. She’d done what she had to do. Once the adrenaline wore off, the rest could engulf her.

The vampire had called her an abomination. She had opened her mouth to comment on how strange that was, coming from a bloodsucking monster, but closed her mouth again. It was weird enough that she didn’t want to even think about it. Besides, there were other, more pressing questions—-such as why the vamp had chosen to die rather than talk.

It could be vengeance. It could be something else. Whatever it was, it was personal. That thought made her queasy. “Are you all right?” Reynard asked. “Yeah,” Ashe said, keeping her voice light, impersonal. “He went down easily enough.”

Reynard sat down on the bench, head bowed. Ashe looked away. He didn’t look happy, but skewering the enemy wasn’t a cheery kind of thing. But then again, you didn’t get into this kind of work to talk about your feelings.

Ashe turned to lean on the railing. Below was the garden, bathed in starlight. A much better view than the vampire. The body had already started to shrivel. In about twenty minutes, it would be a pile of dust. It was as if time caught up with vamps, grinding them to nothing. Once he was gone, they would search his possessions for clues.

Above, the stars glittered like sequins on a torch singer’s evening gown. Below, the gardens glowed like a fairy kingdom. It seemed distant and surreal, a pretty mirage she could look at but not touch. She was made from a different element—something dark and dangerous.