Bloodlines (Demons of Oblivion) (10 page)

So original.

“Okay.” I started to stand. “I’m really not in the mood for this but—”

The man leaped down the steps, grabbed me in one hand, and flung me over the railing. I landed hard on my back on the ground, barked my head on the cement and my vision blurred. Whoever threw me was stronger than the average human.

I heard two sets of feet touch down with a dull
thud
three feet away. My new enemy was joined by someone else—also dressed in black with his face covered—and I had a feeling there was going to be much more violence in the minutes to come.

Ugh. My gut ached. I drew myself up onto my elbows. “I don’t suppose we could just talk this over.” The heels of my shoes held up well as I stood; all the wobbling was strictly my own self weakening. I needed to feed. And rest. Maybe a spa day.

I arched my back in a stretch and it gave a loud crack. “There—did you hear that? I’m really not feeling up to kicking both your asses—”

I didn’t get to finish as both of them rushed at me and attacked in unison. I pivoted out of their way and sent a kick flying into the back of the nearest guy. He stumbled forward and crashed into his partner.

Had I been fighting
The
Three
Stooges,
it would have been over then. But no, I had to get stuck with trained, experienced fighters, who, by the looks of it, weren’t entirely human. It figures.

My agility was severely impaired by some of the wounds I had sustained so far. A punch I normally could have dodged hit me in the stomach, reminding me of the bullet lodged in my insides. Like I’d forgotten. As I doubled over, he slammed his elbow into my back and I hit the pavement.

Yep. I needed a spa day.

I looked up at him just as that black boot sailed toward me, about to deliver a kick to my ribs. I rolled out of the way and scrambled to my feet. Hands closed on me; the second guy grabbed me from behind. One arm crushed my throat, the other came across my chest, effectively pinning me to him.

His friend came at me, hand in his pocket. Probably a stake—I’d seen these collapsible metal dealies some hunters carried, and—

A
stun gun
?

“Uh, guys,” I said as he advanced on me. “It’s nice that you don’t want to kill me, but I’d really rather not be unconscious either.”

Just as the man with the stun gun reached me, I grabbed a hold of his partner’s arms and kicked off the ground. I positioned one foot behind Stun-Gun-Guy’s neck and pressed the other to his face. Pain, hot and burning, struck me as he shocked me with the gun; I brushed it aside and swiftly snapped his neck.

He crumpled into a heap. My feet touched the ground, and I yanked the man holding me over my shoulder and dropped him on the road.

Shivers—or more like twitches, I supposed—danced over my skin. I blinked hard, brushed the hair from my face. Spa week. In Bermuda. I’d buy a plane ticket as soon as I got home.

Gunfire sounded in Mishka’s apartment, popping like firecrackers. Something dark splattered over one of the windows.

Shit.

I raced to the fire escape and started climbing up it again.

The air crackled behind me. A sphere of fire—the size of a basketball—flew through the air, over my head, and into Mish’s apartment. An explosion followed, shaking the building. Mishka’s floor burst into flame, glass shattering and flying out to paint the pavement below in jagged-edged moonlight. The blast struck me too, blew me back from the building. I soared through the air, hit the wall of the apartment complex across the street, and then slumped to the pavement.

For a moment I sat there like a broken ragdoll, her stuffing all torn out and put back in wrong. My knees were streaked with blood. Arms caked with it too. My stomach wasn’t happy about that bullet still, nor was my back thrilled about how many times I’d hit a hard surface in the past five minutes. Nothing cracked—not yet—but even my extra strong bones
could
be broken if they took enough abuse, and healing hurt like hell.

As I stood, I spotted another masked man—this one with a regular gun—coming around from the front of the building, where the entrance was. So he must be the one who shot Mish...

I didn’t have time to think up a plan. The man who’s neck I had just finished snapping hopped to his feet, as if nothing had happened at all. The three of them started toward me.

When faced with three assailants who couldn’t die by conventional means and were capable of throwing fireballs, there is really only one option. Get the fuck away from them. Fast.

I sprinted for my motorcycle. Only a dozen steps from it, another fireball flew past me.
Oh shi—
I dove out of the way just as it hit the gas tank and the bike exploded. Warmth danced over my skin and fire crackled with yellow-orange light.

So I was without wheels too. Time to run like hell.

I scrambled, heels scraping the pavement and torn gown whipping around my legs, and fled around the building. The black, dank mouth of an alley opened up, and I darted into its waiting darkness. A barrage of bullets followed; I ducked behind a dumpster. I really couldn’t afford to get hit too many more times—not if I planned to get out of there, which I did. Even if they weren’t planning to kill me, I wasn’t overly zealous to find out exactly why they were after me.

I grabbed the metal dumpster, turned it to its widest side, and pushed it toward my assailants. Using those precious seconds of cover, I ran to the end of the alley onto the street and turned right.

No wheels of my own and I hadn’t a clue who the hell lived in the area anymore, who might help me out. Used to be a great vodou shop in someone’s home above the diner on Third, but—

An engine purred as a car came barreling down the street toward me. More unkillable foes? Maybe. I tensed, prepared to dart down another alley. Instead, the car slowed and pulled up beside me. The passenger window powered down, the interior light flashed on, and Nate O’Connor leaned over from the driver’s seat. “Get in.”

Damn, was I ever glad he forgot that I’d been sent to kill him earlier.

I jumped in the silver Jaguar and Nate hit the accelerator. He started to make a turn down the next block, which would lead to Mishka’s now-burning apartment building.

“Not that way!” I grabbed the steering wheel. The car squealed in protest of the sudden action and we nearly ran straight into a brick wall before Nate corrected our course.

“I’ve got to get Mish—”

“Mishka’s dead,” I said flatly.

His lips parted in a gasp and his face paled as he turned to look at me. “You’re seri—”

A huge ball of fire sailed past the car, crashing into the side of a building to the left. Bricks and burning debris rained down; Nate swerved to the right to miss it.

“Compartmentalize, lover boy—we’ve got shit to deal with.”

“What the hell—”

Oh please don’t let me be stuck with a pretty rich boy who can’t face creatures from beyond.
“When a demon comes from the fiery depths of hell, he generally likes to bring a bit of that flamey goodness along with him.”

“Why aren’t they trying to blow up the car?”

“Because they want me alive.”

Gunshots ensued, bullets shattering the back window. We both ducked as several more followed.

“Guns seem a little unnecessary when they can throw fireballs,” Nate said.

“Well, it is the twenty-first century,” I said. “And variety adds a bit of spice to life. Why don’t you have bullet-proof glass?”

“This isn’t the Pope-Mobile.”

Touché. “Maybe you should invest in one after this.” I pushed my hair from my face and glanced around the back of the seat to see the guys trailing us in an SUV. “I don’t suppose you can throw a spell at them?”

“It’s rather difficult to concentrate while I’m driving.” His gaze flickered from me back to the road and he sank down in his seat, trying to keep an eye on the street while ducking the bullets that continued to whiz over our heads. He reached over and unlatched the glove compartment door to reveal a lovely Desert Eagle. Hadn’t played with one of those in a while.

“.357, nine rounds,” he said.

The gun was smooth and heavy in my hands; I looked past it but didn’t see any extra ammo. “Another magazine?”

“I don’t exactly get in a lot of gunfights, so no,” he said.

Stupid rich pretty boy. Totally useless. Okay then—nine rounds. I’d better make them count.

I checked the position of the vehicle behind us. A black SUV—gotta be fucking kidding me. Nothing good came from a black SUV; they should arrest anyone buying one ’cause I only ever ran into criminals, demons, and yuppies who drove them. Never someone you want to deal with. The driver kept the SUV in a straight line, probably figuring if we had a gun, we would have already used it. No need to swerve.

“When I start firing, keep the car steady.” I waited until Nate was about to turn a corner, and then swung my upper body out the open side window.

Just as the car moved around the building, I fired two bullets—one into our pursuer’s vehicle, then another at the man hanging out the passenger window shooting at us. The first one cracked the front window but didn’t shatter it. The second missed the gunner by a few inches.

A fiery orb crashed into another building ahead of us. Nate veered to the left; I lost my balance and pitched forward.

Before I could fall, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back.

“Shit,” I muttered, ducking back in the car.

“Sorry, the—”

“I know—just let me think.” I paused to gather my bearings, then resumed my position partially out the window.

Hair whipped around my shoulders, over my face, but I held still and aimed. Of the next three bullets I fired, two hit their mark. The first one barely grazed the gunner’s shoulder, which I counted as a miss. The next flattened one of the front tires, and the third went straight through the driver’s side of the windshield. The SUV swerved back and forth on the narrow road, screeching as the rim of the flat tire scraped on the cement.

“You’re a good shot,” Nate said.

“Well, I’ve had a few years to practice.”

He glanced in the rear-view mirror. “I think that stopped them.”

“And with four rounds to spare. Hey, I
am
pretty good.”

Silence reined, with just the purr of the engine playing in my ears. I popped the passenger window back up; my hair settled around my shoulders and I decided not to think about what kind of knots I was facing. No matter how much conditioner I applied ahead of time, a gunfight while hanging out a car window always led to major tangle-age.

Nate swung around the next block, driving toward Mishka’s building. Smoke puffed gray and thick in the air and orange light lit the sky. I opened my mouth to make an “I told you so” comment, then closed it again. He had to see for himself—I got that.

Sirens blared in the distance. Nate slowed the car and peered up at the remnants of the building. Anyone on Mish’s floor and above likely didn’t survive. She definitely wouldn’t have.

He drove again. Several blocks from Mishka’s apartment, when the dank smell of the harbor seeped into the car, Nate pulled the Jag off to the side by the docks. He left the engine running, headlights cutting through the night outside, and stared over the dash and out the windshield.

Please don’t cry. Then I might have to stake myself.

Nate shifted, pointedly not looking at me, hands squeezing the wheel. He lifted his head and I studied his profile, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed tightly. “You’re
sure
—”

“Even if she survived them shooting her, the apartment exploding would have killed her. You saw it.”

He didn’t say anything for the next long while. I didn’t see the big deal—she had, after all, tried to have him killed. But I didn’t point that out. He could brood while I did some thinking; I’d rather that over him turning into a weeping mess.

There was a strange sort of tightening in my chest while I looked at him. Betrayed...it gave me an uncomfortable pang, even when I wasn’t the victim of it.

Maybe I just ate something bad at the party, though.

Nate blinked a few times but didn’t cry. Thank god. “Anywhere in particular you want to go?” He gestured to my midsection. “Don’t you need to have that looked at?”

Yes. In another country where I can lie on a beach at night and drink a lot of cocktails.
“Not right now. Do you know where the Thierings live?”

“Yeah.”

“Then head there.” Mishka had originally said Heaven wanted O’Connor taken out, so she might have some answers. Of course there was a good chance that once I showed up at her house, she and Jeffrey would have me staked on sight, but I was willing to take the risk.

The more I learned about what was going on, the better I could prepare to handle it.

Chapter Eleven

Attack

We reached the Thiering residence a half hour later. I don’t think anything we said in the meantime could have passed for a conversation. He obviously wasn’t ready to talk about Mishka and I wasn’t going to press for any answers yet, just in case he cried and made me uncomfortable. I mean, his stoic silence didn’t
look
like he was gonna cry, but I hadn’t ruled it out. Plus when I was getting information from someone, it tended to involve bone-breaking. I recognized it probably wasn’t the best time for an interrogation when my target was driving.

He slowed the Jag on the long road that led up to the high stone walls surrounding Heaven and Jeffrey’s place.

“If you give me a few minutes to hop over the fence, I can be in and out in no time,” I suggested.

“Just wait.” Nate pulled the car up to the security booth next to the sealed front gate. A guard dressed in dark blue with linebacker shoulders stepped out and crouched before the driver’s side window, taking up the whole space.

“It’s awfully late, sir—” he began.

“I’m Nathan O’Connor.” Nate’s voice went deep, formal, and chilling. This change in him caught my attention at once: I had no idea that he could command such respect in just three words. That was a helpful skill to have. “I need to speak with the Thierings.
Now
.”