Midnight's Daughter(98)
As I started forward, Jonathan threw a hand out, shedding a trail of fox fire in its wake, and something exploded around me in a wave of red sound. Power rolled over me, knocking me to my knees, turning the room hot and vivid and scarlet, until I was drowning in the blood-ripe taste of it. I tried to reinforce my shields, but I couldn’t sense them, couldn’t sense anything but the crash of those waves across my body. Somehow, I’d ended up on my back. I watched Jonathan start to drag Louis-Cesare toward the wooden staircase leading to the upper areas of the winery while my pulse throbbed in my ears and I struggled to breathe.
“Dorina! Behind you!” The shout came from the fight above—Mircea’s voice. I was still so disoriented that it took a moment to realize what he was talking about. The creature had righted itself from its wild ride into the vat and begun to stalk me with quiet, deadly intent. I could see it getting larger, a black hulk reflected in the nearest vat, lurching at me across the floor. But there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Jonathan had hit me with a souped-up disorienting sphere. I’d seen them before, but never been able to afford one. Apparently, the mage had a bigger bank account. I could throw off the usual kind in a matter of minutes, but this version was a wartime weapon used to take out whole groups of mages at once. I had no idea how long the effect would last, and it didn’t look like I’d live long enough to find out.
Above me, blades clashed hard enough to strike sparks, and Caedmon gave way first. Drac pushed him back using sheer force, striking with hammer blows that Caedmon met but didn’t have the strength to return. So much for the Fey’s boast about his dueling ability. I struggled to move, but couldn’t even manage to sit up. I felt a presence behind me, and braced for the attack.
It never came. Olga tossed something over the balcony, and a gray blur hit the floor with a graceful roll. Before I could identify it, the tiny whirlwind was streaking across the floor at me, snarling and snapping useless fangs and launched itself right over my body. It took forever to figure out which way to turn my head to see what was going on. When I did, I was treated to what even a baby Fey can do when it’s really and truly pissed.
Stinky’s long, twiglike fingers had found purchase on the leader’s neck. His tiny body was saved from that vicious beak by the simple method of hiding behind the creature’s own head. Stinky was little more than a fuzzy bump on the vast expanse of leather-like back, safe from beak and claws as he slowly choked the creature to death. It was a great plan, except that the leader realized that the game was up and decided to try to take me with him. Instead of moving forward, in a vain attempt to cross the last few yards to me, it suddenly sprang backward, directly into a huge holding vat. It had dented the thing earlier; now the force of its final assault punctured the steel, letting loose a river of wine that spilled outward in a crimson flood, threatening to drown me.
Finally, the madness I’d been expecting, but which Claire’s presence had prevented, washed over me. Only this time, it didn’t pull me under, didn’t make me black out. I’d never in five hundred years had a chance to find out what happened during one of my fits, other than to examine the carnage afterward. I found out now.
The disorientation didn’t go away, but the animal that lives in my veins was far less affected by it. I didn’t manage to stand, but I didn’t need to stand. Hands and knees got my head above the wine, and propelled me in a drunken crawl toward the staircase. I caught a glimpse in another vat of a crazed-looking creature with matted hair, gleaming fangs and mad, amber eyes staring out of a black-streaked face. I hoped it was me, because I really didn’t want to fight it if not.
Movement made the disorientation worse, as my confused inner ears tried to keep track of new sensory input when they hadn’t yet sorted out the old. Colors, shapes and sounds all ran together around me. I ignored them and stayed focused on Jonathan, who had almost reached the top of the stairs with his prize.
I knew I’d reached the bottom step when I felt old wood under my hands. I dragged myself onto it by feel alone. Jonathan was trying to heave Louis-Cesare’s deadweight the last few feet while fighting off an attack by Olga, who had positioned herself in front of the door leading out. He didn’t see me, but the mage helping him did and panicked. Instead of throwing a spell, which might have worked, he grabbed the nearest lantern. The oil lamp arced through the air, straight at my wine-soaked clothes. I caught it in the air and whipped it right back.
It hit the mage, but glanced off his chest to shatter on the hard wooden slats of the catwalk. The oil spread rapidly over the wine-spattered floor, fire caught and within seconds the circle of boards was a ring out of hell. The mage backpedaled, batting at the tongues of flame that had landed on his shirt and trousers, the soles of his boots aflame and starting to singe. He bumped into Olga, who tipped him over the balcony with a casual motion of one huge hand. There was a sudden whoosh, and the wine-soaked floor exploded in flame.
I caught sight of Stinky, scaling the side of the vat like a little monkey, well ahead of the flames. He leapt from the top of the vat to the catwalk, and turned to stare at me, as if to say, what’s taking you so long? My legs were like rubber, but I made headway using my arms, scraping my palms as I dragged myself slowly upward.
Caedmon had been driven back almost to Olga’s position, and his perfect form was starting to falter. His eyes kept straying to the burning catwalk, and the fire that was quickly spreading their way. Drac, on the other hand, was shining with power. His sword strokes were easy, and he ignored the smoking hot floor beneath his feet as if the threat didn’t exist.