Kitty Raises Hell

“Extraordinary,” Grant said softly. When he glanced at us, he was actually smiling. “Do you know what you’ve done here?”

I shrugged. “We weren’t trying to do anything fancy. I just wanted to keep my city safe.”

Peter had lingered by the theater door, and now slammed it shut. “They’re coming.”

“Get out of sight,” Grant said to us. We didn’t argue. Not that it would help; we were facing a vampire and a pack of lycanthropes. They’d be able to smell us. Peter waved us over to the far edge of the stage, where we could hide in the wings, at least for a little while. This was going to come down to the face-to-face battle I’d been hoping to avoid.

I whispered to Peter, “This is going to get ugly. You should get out of here, okay? I don’t want you to get tossed around or bitten.”

“Shh.” He didn’t promise. I decided that my first priority was going to have to be looking after him. Might not be the best policy. But I owed it to him—and his brother.

Downstage, Grant had opened the door to the box of vanishing and placed the ifrit’s jar inside.

A breath of cold passed through the theater, like an air conditioner had just come on. Then she was standing before the stage, looking up at him. I’d seen the woman only twice, once as part of Balthasar’s show, the dark priestess of a mock ceremony, and once as the real priestess, wielding a silver dagger over my heart. That time, I’d gotten a good look at her, a good smell of her, and knew she was a vampire. Now she was dressed in a black flowing gown, a robe wrapped around her, belted with gold. Her hair was long and loose down her back. She was like a statue, unbreathing, solid as stone. I swallowed back a growl. Ben squeezed my hand.

Her entourage accompanied her, a half-dozen young men who walked with graceful, easy strides and spread out around the theater, blocking the exits. They were handsome, decorative, and smug; they knew how gorgeous they were and knew how to show it off. The fur and wild smell of lycanthrope was thick around them. Their leader, Nick, stood at the top of the center aisle, gazing over the stage as if they’d already won.

I wasn’t sure Grant would be able to hold his own against the group.

“This is a trap,” the vampire, Farida, said, in a rich, clipped accent I couldn’t identify.

Flat on his palm, facing her, Grant held a cross. It wouldn’t stop her in an attack, but maybe it would make her hesitate. She stepped forward, moving to the side of the stage and a set of steps hidden there. Though she seemed to move slowly, she was on the stage in moments, approaching him. I blinked, sure I’d missed something.

Grant stood his ground and spoke as if placating a wild animal. “I’m only returning what belongs to you.”

She glanced at the jar with a look of distaste. “I do not want it. It has failed. As you will.”

“I should have done this a long time ago,” Odysseus Grant murmured.

I had to keep my breathing slow. I didn’t want to panic. Grant looked nervous, which made my heart sink. His lips were thin, his breathing was deep—I could see his chest moving. That cross wasn’t going to protect him if the vampire made a move.

He was drawing her in, waiting for, to her to get closer. I could almost see him counting, ticking off seconds as she stepped forward. She moved like she didn’t think his magic could hurt her, and I wondered if it was true, if there was a reason Grant had hidden himself away all this time rather than confronting her and stopping the cult earlier. For all his air of power, he was mortal.

She paid no attention to the box or the ifrit’s jar. Her gaze focused on him. A vampire’s gaze had power—all she had to do was make Grant look into her eyes, and she could immobilize him.

I crouched, getting ready to spring. I couldn’t defeat her, but I had to try. I couldn’t let her take down Grant. Ben put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed, holding me back like he knew what I was going to do.

Grant threw something to the floor at the base of the box, at the jar. A puff of smoke and sparks exploded around it. Special effects, I thought—a smoke bomb or explosive squib of some kind, a distraction. But the smoke spread, rose up, and from it emerged the outline of a figure, broad and hunched, licked all around with tongues of flame, rising from the broken jar.

I almost screamed, jumping forward and shouting a denial. All that work—we’d set a neighborhood on fire to capture that thing—and he just let it go. Ben held me back.

The ifrit clenched blurred, fiery fists, tipped its head back, and screamed, a sound like that of a flamethrower. Grant had vanished—probably not literally vanished, but had gotten well out of the way and out of sight. The demon hovering before the box had turned its rage toward the vampire—who took a step back.

We hadn’t been the first ones to capture the ifrit. Farida had trapped it first, then set it on us. The vampire priestess had used it as a tool, and now that it was free, it went for the closest target at hand. Blasting fire from its limbs, it reached for her, enveloped her—

Then something else reached for both of them.

I didn’t see what. What I did see: Enveloped together, wrapped in a struggle, they leaned toward the inside of the box, then they fell in. They both gave short cries, not of anger, but of surprise. Terror. The vampire was burning, struggling in the cage of fire that the ifrit had wrapped around her. The ifrit wasn’t looking at anything but her. Then it was like they’d been yanked off their feet, and they disappeared.

Grant stepped around the box, closed the door quietly, and held it shut, leaning against it for a long moment. The theater was quiet. I smelled burning fabric and brimstone.

The magician finally stepped away from the box and brushed his hands.

From the back of the theater, Nick might have shouted, “No!” but the word was lost in a full-throated feline roar. He must not have believed his vampire mistress could lose. I had to admit, I hadn’t quite believed it, either.

He ran, straight for the stage and Odysseus Grant.

I sprang to intercept him. Ben couldn’t hold me this time.

Nick was fast, with a feline grace that gave him a powerful sprint, bent low, head down, strides long, muscles working. I could see the tiger in him, all that instinct and power coming through. He made an inhuman leap and reached the stage easily, his next stride ready to take him to Grant and tackle him.

My own jump across the stage, aiming for Nick, wasn’t nearly as graceful, but it worked. My legs went wild, but my arms got him, wrapped around him, tackled him. Our combined momentums sent us rolling, limbs tangled, bodies hitting the stage and each other. I was going to be seriously bruised after this. And I wasn’t quite sure what the move had gotten me.

Nick didn’t waste time. He kept the roll going until he landed on top of me, wrenched me facedown, and bent back my arm. His breath blew on my cheek, and his teeth closed around my throat, going for blood, with nothing sexy about him at all. Growling, I bucked, looking for the leverage to throw him off me.

Then he was just gone. I scrambled to all fours, bracing for the next attack, sure that Nick had let me go so he could play with me like a cat with a struggling mouse. But no—my pack had come to save me—or at least Ben had. He’d grabbed Nick from behind, arm across his throat, weight bracing him off-balance. Nick kicked and struggled, hissing, spitting around sharp, half-transformed teeth.

This was exactly why wolves traveled in packs. We weren’t meant to hunt by ourselves.

Nick was thrashing, and Ben’s grip was slipping. The struggle showed in his grimace.

Grant opened the door to the box and nodded at me.

I grabbed Nick’s flailing feet and dragged him toward the box. Ben followed my lead. With Nick howling, we managed to wrestle him into place, half throw and half drop him through the doorway. If it had been just a box, Nick’s struggles would have knocked the thing over, but when he fell in, he fell all the way in. I smelled something dank, and a draft came in through the shadowed interior.