Rob Thurman - Moonshine

Not yet.

They didn't have the spidery motion of the revenants. The vodyanoi flowed like the water that had whelped them. They weren't fast, but there were enough of them that it didn't matter. And like their lost and unlamented cousin, they were armed. Some with identical machetes, some swords… anything with an edge. Their crudely formed fingers were too large to fit in the trigger guard of a gun.

"What a shame you wasted all your explosive rounds knocking on the door," Goodfellow gritted at my elbow.

"I didn't." I pulled out the gun and shoved it into his hand, and then followed it with a box of ammunition. "It's sighted for me. Aim a few inches high." Whirling, I sheathed Niko's sword in a tiny black eye. The vodyanoi bubbled a cry of agony, a thin, mucous scream. I withdrew the blade and hit the heavy rubber of its chest with my shoulder. It fell onto its back, where it thrashed wildly. Promise followed my example and sent the one behind it down with a quarrel through an inky orb. And then the one to the left and the one to the right. Her face a tight ivory mask, she was a cold wind of destruction sweeping through the place. And when she ran out of quarrels, she used her hands to pierce their eyes, and her teeth to peel their thick flesh down to bone. An enraged vampire isn't something anyone would want to face, not even a vodyanoi.

I didn't stick around to see how the rest of the battle went. I didn't have the time, and Niko and George didn't have it either. There was no up in the church other than a vaulted ceiling and the jigsaw puzzle of darkened stained-glass windows. That left down. I ran through the milling vodyanoi, dodging and parrying blades. I heard another of the shrill screams in my wake and turned to see one seal-blubber arm sliced off cleanly at the elbow. The stump was pumping blood, but the amputated section was gone. The gateway, it had passed through the vodyanoi and gobbled the creature's arm as it went.

It was bigger. Almost big enough for what I heard whispering on the other side. Yeah, running out of time—on all fronts.

I found the stairs to the basement and was forced to sacrifice speed for stealth. If he heard me coming, Hob would be sure to rush through whatever twisted ceremony he was conducting. Or he might escape as he had done before. Couldn't have that, the rage murmured in the back of my thoughts. Couldn't have that at all. My quiet care was successful. He didn't hear me.

I spotted George first. Her hands and feet tied, she was propped up against the wall. Her beautiful hair was gone, leaving a close cap of tight red waves. It made her eyes look impossibly large, like those of a child. There was a cut on her upper arm, six inches long and scabbed over. It was where he had cut her. Him or Caleb—they might as well have been the same. While I'd been on the phone, they had cut her to give me a dose of encouragement. God.

She saw me before Hob did. Not because she heard me or glimpsed me in the shadows. She saw me because she knew I would be there. Her eyes were trained on the spot before I appeared. Luminous and calm, waiting and knowing.

Then I saw Niko. I should've seen him first. I think… I think I didn't want to. He was in chains, suspended from an overhead beam, half-nude. His skin was more red than olive. The bastard had sliced him up like a Christmas goose. A circle nearly eight inches in diameter had been cut into his chest. A representation of the Calabassa, it ran with blood. My brother ran with blood.

The whispering behind me was louder now. I could feel a numbing cold flowing from behind like an arctic tide. I had minutes, maybe less.

My teeth bit savagely at my lower lip until I could taste the salt. He was bloody, but he wasn't d—wasn't gone. The wound, although gory, wasn't fatal. But from the contemplative expression on Hob's face, it was only the beginning. He stood before Niko, tapping the point of one of those goddamn poniards against his chin.

"This is the only symbol required by the Calabassa before sacrifice," he said mockingly, "but I've always said going the extra mile never hurts." He leaned closer and touched a finger to the blood winding its way down Niko's abdomen. "I misspoke. It doesn't hurt me. You, my filthy, inbred Rom trash, are a different story."

If he was standing that close to Niko, there had to be… yes, I saw it. My brother's feet were chained as well, with the chain fastened securely to the floor. It was the only reason the puck's head was still attached to his shoulders. Nik lifted his head and said flatly, "You breed with yourself, goat. I believe you have the corner on inbreeding."

"Who else would be worthy?" Hob had plainly learned to keep his temper over the innumerable years. He rubbed the blood between his thumb and forefinger, then touched the circlet of metal resting on his head. The Calabassa pulsed with light, white and hot, once, then subsided. The illumination had passed through Hob as well. He had glowed, as if he were glass and lit from within. "Ah, apparently it likes the way you taste. How fortuitous." He flipped the blade in his other hand up into the air. "And when it's had its fill of you, I'll be ready for the sighted one." His gaze slid toward George and her eyes were already on his in anticipation. Satisfied, he turned back and flipped the poniard one last time.

I cut him in midspin.

He saw me. Too late for him and too early for me.

He slithered to one side and my blade penetrated flesh only to bounce off a collarbone. Hob melted away with a speed that fooled the eye. But I followed with a desperate speed of my own. I couldn't protect both Niko and George unless I stayed with Hob, on Hob. He ignored the blood that stained an unbuttoned white linen shirt as fine as anything Goodfellow owned, and spread his hands in welcome. The poniard was a glittering punctuation. "Ah, the freak show can commence. The star performer is here. And he's learned a shiny new trick."

The gateway was now centered in the room. It no longer trailed after me, but I could feel it turn with my every movement—a sunflower to the sun. Or more aptly a flytrap to meat. "Not so new," I said with a false stretch of smile. "Not anymore."

"You won't swing it wide, that gate," he countered scornfully. "I hear them, you know, your true family." He tilted his head as if listening. "They're waiting and not very patiently. They would destroy everyone in this room. Everyone."

Like Robin, he was a talker. Talk. Talk. The fury in me didn't want to talk. It wanted to kill. Luckily enough, that's what I wanted as well. I lunged at him as he was explaining what I would or wouldn't do. He was better than I was; I knew that. He'd taken Niko. That made him just about better than anyone on the planet. But there are things that can give you an edge in a fight, things that can at least get you into the game. One of those—the best one, in fact—was no fear of death.

I didn't want to die, but if I couldn't save Niko and George, I was dead anyway. If I saved them, I could go without complaint. And pure, unadulterated rage helps in that, blurring the survival instinct. It can make you sloppy, but it can also help in certain situations.

The ones where you don't care if you walk away top the list.

Hob caught the katana on his Spanish blade, twisted his wrist so that I would hit the point of the poniard if I didn't pull back. I didn't. The punch of metal tore through my hip, lodging in bone. I think it hurt. It must've hurt. I didn't feel a thing. I did a half turn, ripping the dagger from his hand. I then sliced him across the chest with Niko's sword. He was still too quick for it to be fatal, but it staggered him enough that he retreated several feet. I used my left hand to yank the poniard from my flesh and bone. "Lose something?" I said with false sympathy.