Karen Chance - Claimed by Shadow

I raised my head to find that I was almost nose to nose with Dracula. He looked strangely pleased to see me; then I was staring at the knife hilt sticking out of my chest, right between the third and fourth ribs. It hurt, but not like I would have expected. There was no bright, searing pain, and very little blood. That might have been because Augusta hadn't fed recently or because the bastard had missed her heart by a fraction of an inch.

Vlad was preparing to take off her head, why I couldn't imagine. Maybe because she was helping Mircea? Maybe because he was a nut? Who knew? But he was taking his time about unsheathing the long knife at his side. The one he'd used on me was one of Pritkin's-he must have pulled it out of his own flesh-but this one looked like an old family weapon, with a heavy, inlaid grip and a fine, polished blade. Too bad he wouldn't get a chance to use it.

"Billy, you're about to have company!" My yell echoed off the theatre walls. "Get down here.”

"You have caused me a great deal of trouble," Dracula was telling me as my body tore towards us across the stage. 'I will enjoy this.”

"I doubt it," I said, and shifted.

A very confusing split second later, I ended up almost running off the stage. Billy screamed in my head and I stopped, balancing on the very edge. It gave me a perfect view of Dracula getting acquainted with Senate member Augusta. He should have decapitated her without the fanfare while he had the chance. As it was, she was more than happy to give a demonstration of exactly how she'd gotten onto the Senate in the first place. What she lacked in fighting skill she made up for in ruthlessness and utter practicality. She tore Pritkin's knife out of her chest, ignoring the splitting, fleshy sound it made, and stabbed it into Dracula's while he was still gloating over his kill.

Unlike him, she didn't miss.

I saw the shock on his face as the heart was pierced, and heard the sound of metal splitting wood when the knife hit the floor below. She sank it deeply enough to trap him like a bug on a pin, then snatched off the arm from one of the first-row seats nearby, using his heirloom to carve the end into a nice, jagged point. The metal weapon wouldn't kill him, although it didn't seem to be doing him any good, but the stake would. Augusta glanced up, as if waiting for me to intervene, but I just looked at her. I'd saved one of Mircea's brothers; I didn't owe him two.

Augusta's arm flashed down, almost too fast to see. But the makeshift stake hit only the floor of the theatre, connecting in an arm-numbing jolt that echoed loudly in the empty space. Dracula was simply not there anymore. I didn't understand it and neither did Augusta, but then I saw Stoker clutching a small black box. He gave me a slight smile, then slid sideways and passed out. The incubus rose from his chest, looking as smug as a largely featureless spirit can.

Augusta snatched up the box, but hesitated when she saw the way the spirit's face changed. She glanced from its demon visage to me, then again demonstrated utter practicality. She dropped it and ran.

I looked around, but no vamps were visible. Weirdly enough, other than for the chair arm and some blood smears on the stage, the theatre looked like nothing had ever happened. Still, something was missing. "Where are the wards?" I asked Billy.

He drifted out of me slowly, as if reluctant to leave the shelter of my body. He peered around, but there was no sign of the theatre ghosts. They were probably recovering from the energy drain of whatever they'd done to Myra. "Destroyed-the dislocator took them out.”

"They're gone? All of them?”

"They wouldn't have lasted anyway, Cass. They weren't offensive wards. They were designed to operate defensively on a body, as protection, not like some kind of weapon. What you saw was them self-destructing.”

I thought of the eagle making one final dive and my throat got tight.

"Cassie!" Billy's voice was like a slap. "Don't do this- not now! We have no wards and the vamps will be back any minute. We need to get gone.”

I searched around for Myra, but without Augusta's senses, it was futile. I didn't believe for a second that the ghosts had killed her. For one thing, it would take a lot more than one ghost, or even one and a half, to drain a healthy human. For another, I'm just not that lucky. I briefly contemplated trying to go back in time, to be there to catch her before she made her grand exit, but the presence of that other bomb made me hesitate. I'd seen what a dislocator could do in my vision; I didn't want to experience it firsthand.

I slid off the stage with considerably less than Augusta's undead grace and picked up the black box. It weighed no more than it had before. I shook it doubtfully, but the spirit only smiled. It looked rather strange with bloody eyes and fangs. "He is in there, I assure you.”

"Now what?" I asked, as its features slipped back into benevolent vagueness.

"I wait," it said, with a lot more serenity than I'd have felt in its position. Still, if you were immortal, I guess the prospect of a few decades' delay didn't faze you much.

Pritkin's eyelashes were fluttering. "Myra's gone," I told him before he could ask. He nodded but didn't say anything. I looked back up at my nebulous ally. "Have you seen Mircea?" I assumed he'd survived, since the sequence of events from the vision had been interrupted, but I had to be sure.

"I believe he will be along." It started to fade, and I held out a hand to stop it.

“Thank you for your help. I know you didn't do it for me, but-well, anyway." I suddenly realized something. "I don't even know your name. I'm Cassie Palmer.”

It fluctuated to a light pink. "So few people bother to ask," it said in a pleased voice. "I have used many names through the centuries. It varies, depending on the sex and culture of the body I am inhabiting. I was Aisling once in Ireland, Sapna in India, Amets in France. Call me what you will, Cassie.”

It flushed a darker shade, almost a rose, which I guess was good because it started quoting Shakespeare again. " 'When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won.'" It started fading out once more, and this time I let it.

Pritkin grasped the side of the orchestra pit and hauled himself up onstage. He peered back over the side, holding out a hand, but I ignored it. Something was tickling the back of my mind. It felt like I'd just been handed a puzzle piece; only I didn't know what it was or where it fit.

"Are you hurt?" Pritkin's voice floated down to me.

"No." I finally took his hand and crawled back onto the stage. Almost the moment I did so, hysterical shrieks erupted from the pit behind me. Stoker had woken up, and with no incubus to deflect it, the full force of his wounds hit him all at once. Burns are painful, and ones as bad as his had to be excruciating. Pritkin jumped back in the hole, but the man's pitiful cries didn't stop.

I was about to follow him when a black box dangling in front of my face suddenly filled my vision. A low, rich voice purred in my ear. "Good evening, Trouble.”

I didn't answer, momentarily stunned at the immense wave of relief that swept through me at hearing that voice alive and well. I controlled my features, waiting for the geis to kick in, but nothing happened. There was a warm rush of pleasure, a happy frisson humming along my skin from just being near him, but nothing extreme. I'd forgotten-in this era, the horrid thing was still brand spanking new. It hadn't had time to grow teeth yet. But it would. Big ones.

I caught the box. It looked just like mine. "What is this?" Dark eyes met mine, glittering wickedly. "I offer a trade." Stoker, crazed from pain, suddenly scrambled out of the pit and took off up the center aisle. Pritkin went after him, why I couldn't imagine. Maybe so Mircea could wipe his memory, although that seemed unnecessary. When he'd written a confused version of everything years later, it had sold as fiction.