Lilith Saintcrow - Taken

The thing came through the shattered door, pouring like liquid and resolving into a low shape running with fur, smoking with black blood along one side, a white stripe sliding down its length. It landed in a compact ball, a sound of claws snicking against the concrete, and its growl trailed off in a series of clicks.

She sagged against the wall, staring, as Mark whirled, flying wood smacking him with obscene little chucking sounds.

And Mark, the monster, the huge, terrifying thing that haunted her, actually screamed. It was a high girlish sound, all the more absurd because she recognized the striped thing that uncoiled, stalking forward with graceful eerie authority.

She would know him anywhere now, with the spirits crawling under her skin, the rattle of the copper-bottomed pans buzzing in her veins. The feeling was delightful, new strength that laughed at the deep drilling pain in her side whenever she took a breath, snickered at the way blood kept dripping in her eyes, and snarled at the way her legs kept trembling, threatening to spill her on the concrete.

The thing that had been her ex-husband let out a screech and jumped for Zach, who faded aside with scary grace, striking out with one elegant-clawed hand. His form blurred like ink in running water, never pausing, fur shifting along its lines. He was sleek and deadly, and she recognized the crackling in the air around him because it invaded her own veins.

It was the rage. And it was good .

The spirits knew. They whispered that he was too far gone, that the anger had taken him and he was just as likely to kill her as Mark. They whispered that he was over the edge, and that she should back away, make herself small and quiet so they didn’t notice her.

For the first time in her life, Sophie didn’t want to hide.

She launched herself forward, the spirits crackling around her, their faces turned to pictures of astonishment, and landed on Mark’s back, barely aware she was screaming. Her blood-slippery fists pounded, something tore in her side again and a red sheet of pain fed the thing roaring inside and outside of her skin.

He threw her. She was weightless for a long second, the spirits pouring around her in a confusion of long hair and open, awestruck mouths. The wall loomed; she hit it with a sick thump, her head snapping back and something else breaking.

The rage ate the pain and turned into a thunder crack. The noise was incredible. The shapes in front of her eyes refused to make sense for a moment, hazed with red.

Zach and the thing that had been Mark circled. The vampire was making a sound like horny nails dragged over concrete, its throat swelling and its clothes ripped up one side. Zach hunched down on all fours, moving fluidly, still making that odd clicking noise. His muzzle lifted, white teeth showing, and they closed in a welter of noise and tearing.

Darkness fuzzed around the edges of her vision. She tried to push it away, taking in hitching little breaths. The faces were closer now, taking on weight. They looked so, so sad.

The vampire jetted forward with that scary, liquid speed, and Zach froze for a split second, his eyes flicking past the threat to Sophie. Don’t worry about me! she wanted to scream. Pay attention to him! He’s coming right at you!

Zach faded aside, somehow not there as the thing that had been Mark let out a short sharp victorious cry. The lean furred shape twisted amazingly, the ribbons of his slashed T-shirt fluttering like pennants, and made a movement almost too quick to be seen. His hands lengthened into claws, light shearing off each of them, and foul blackness exploded. The noise trickled away into shocked silence, and Sophie heard her own breathing again, bubbling, each gasp a hitching agony.

The body thudded down.

Zach crouched over him, the clicking growl fading bit by bit. His fur moved restlessly, motion sharply controlled. His eyes were wide, dark, and there was no trace of the man she’d kissed in them.

There was just an animal, its hide twitching, favoring its left front paw. The white streak down its side was slicked with blood and darker fluids. It paused, the clicking settling into a sort of chuffing.

Sophie stared. Oh, God. He just killed Mark. The red pain jabbing in her ribs cranked up a notch, darkness closing around the edges of her vision like a camera shutter closing. The faces moved between them, gossamer-thin now, and so sad. They were crying, crystal droplet tears vanishing as they fell.

The animal sniffed. It turned, a loose fluid movement, and faced the door. Sophie tried to get up, but her body wasn’t having any of it. The pain was fuzzy, and very far away now. The darkness was closing in.

The clicks and chuffing shifted. It occurred to her, in a sideways leap that might have been intuition or might have been the spirits whispering, that he was trying to say her name.

The single bulb in its glass shield grew dimmer. Or was it that her eyelids wouldn’t stay up? A bubble of heat burst on her lips.

Just before complete blackness crawled through her, she saw the shadows at the wine cellar door. They were moving jerkily, their eyes glowing and dripping.

They were the vampires. There were plenty of them.

And down here Zach was all alone.

Sophie fell away from consciousness, still trying to scream.

It was a joy to kill.

Carcajou were so few. They, among all the Tribes, did not know what it was to retreat or surrender. Their battle rage, when it truly took hold, didn’t stop until muscle was pulled from bone, blood vessels popped, and the brain was shattered.

Even facing a good twenty upir, the idea of disengaging from the battle didn’t even cross the sea of bloodlust serving him for a mind now. The animal in him was unchained, unloosed, and the mate that belonged to them both lay behind him, wounded. Her blood and musk and terror filled this small space, maddening him even further.

He slunk back a few feet, the blood-trill filling his throat. The movement was only to make certain of his footing. The enemies were near, things of foulness and rancid death, more and more of them pressing through the small door.

He could hold them for a long time here, since only a few could fit down the stairs. If they wanted to advance into this room, it would cost them dearly. He had already thinned their numbers above, following the fading, flaring drift of light musk and silver distress.

Of her . She was here, and behind him. His mate was bleeding, and they had made her bleed. Had hurt her.

One of the upir —a female—appeared in the door. “ Another one of these things? You’d think they would learn.”

His lip lifted a little. It was all meaningless noise. His growl was not. It resounded from the sides of this little hole.

One of the upir darted in. A young one, and stupid. It was a moment’s work to tear his claws through the sweet-sick rotten skin and spill out the rancidness inside. He growled again, a warning.

“Kill it, you imbeciles!” the female shrieked. She smelled old, and she smelled sick. Not the sickness of a bad batch of blood burning up an upir from the inside, but a clotted smell of pale wriggling things bursting when sunlight hit them, leaving a thin scum on everything they touched.

The upir surged forward, and he showed his teeth. The animal roared. Behind him, his mate had gone silent, even the thin shallow gasps missing. The tortured air was hot and close, his nose stinging, blood slicking his fur down and a sharp, sweet pain spurring him on. It was like wine in his blood, that pain. Strength and invincibility.

They moved forward. He smelled the fear on them. It teased at his nose, smarting and stinging from the thick miasma of death held close and hot in this little bolt hole.