Midnight's Daughter(99)
The two of them reached Olga at the same time that I topped the stairs. Caedmon made a misstep and dropped to one knee, Drac surged forward for the kill and Olga’s hand shot out, palm forward, as if she thought she could merely push him back. Drac looked at her, his flat expression saying as clear as words that he was considering how best to snap her neck. I would have screamed if I’d had the voice—no matter how strong she was accustomed to feeling, there was no doubt Drac was stronger. But then I saw that there was something in Olga’s hand.
It flared to life the instant it touched Drac, and within seconds was so bright I could see it through the flesh of her hand, like sunlight through butterfly wings. Drac dropped his sword and stood staring down at his chest. He looked up at Mircea, and there was something in his eyes for a second, something that looked almost like triumph. A shudder started at his head and ran to his feet, gathering force like a fist about to land. And then he exploded from the inside, raining blood and bits of flesh over everything.
Something fell to the catwalk and rolled off, bouncing down the stairs, boring and dull once again. It hit my foot before disappearing into the flames below—just a tiny piece of stone, gray and unprepossessing. I looked up at Olga, stunned and impressed as hell. I should have remembered: she’d been married to one of the big names in the illegal-weapons trade. Of course she’d have brought a few nasty surprises.
“You outbid me.” It looked like Mrs. Manoli and her cursed gravestone had claimed one last victim. Considering the number of women Drac had murdered in his time, I thought she would have approved. Olga merely shrugged. “Did you see Jonathan?”
“No.” She glanced over the railing, unconcerned. “He not leave. Maybe fall off.”
I didn’t think so. With a final heave, I dragged myself onto the landing. The boards were uncomfortably warm under my hands as I stayed on hands and knees for a moment, panting harshly. Stinky ran down the smoking railing, his long toes clutching the wood as surely as hands, until he reached me. He hopped off, chattering about something in an unknown language, or maybe it was the Fey equivalent of baby talk. He grabbed my hand and started tugging me toward the door and I got the idea, but my head was swimming and I still didn’t trust my legs.
I held up a shaking hand. “Give me a minute.”
Olga grabbed Stinky by the scruff of the neck, and scooped up Caedmon, who was leaning in utter exhaustion against the wall, surrounded by a ring of burning boards. He wasn’t in any real danger that I could see, but for some reason he was staring at the fire with as much terror as a vamp. She tucked him under one sturdy arm and carried him and Stinky into the light-filled outer portion of the winery.
I sat on the smoking catwalk and waited. Olga had been between the mage and the door; no way had he gotten past her unnoticed, especially with Louis-Cesare in tow. Which meant they were still here.
My eyes scanned the circle of wood, but saw nothing. That wasn’t too surprising—cloaking spells are fairly standard—but they hold up only as long as you don’t move. Unless he planned on suicide, Jonathan had to move and move soon, before the merrily burning catwalk collapsed completely. And when he did, he was dead.
I’d no sooner had the thought when fog billowed up in front of my nose, thick as cotton, leaving me facing a featureless sea of gray. I could hear chanting nearby, echoing weirdly off the walls, but couldn’t pinpoint it. Power pulsed through the air with dangerous strength, pounded at my temples like a headache, made my ears ring. Crazy Jonathan might be, but there was no doubt that he was strong.
But there was still only one way out, and I was sitting right in front of it.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Louis-Cesare!” I yelled as loudly as I could, but the billowing wall of white threw it back in my face.
If he heard, there was no sign. But someone else did. Like a bad microphone, tinny and too loud, Jonathan’s voice was suddenly everywhere. “Your Fey friends are outside, dhampir. No, no, can’t go that way.” He giggled, as if being stuck in a building burning down around his ears was funny.
Fear replaced the fury behind my ribs. I could talk my way out of most things, but no one could reason with a madman. Especially a high madman. But I didn’t have a lot of other options. “Jonathan! Give the vampire to me and we can talk.”
More high-pitched giggles echoed everywhere, as if the walls were laughing. Jonathan was on a power high, and likely to do anything. I had to get to him before he decided he could fly, or something equally crazy, and got Louis-Cesare roasted in the process. I flexed my muscles, feeling tiny pinpricks of pain in my legs as sensation returned. Little burn marks, mostly from floating ash, peppered my jeans, but there was no real damage. As long as I didn’t run into any more spells, I ought to be okay. How Louis-Cesare was holding up was another question. If he was unconscious, he couldn’t even bat away flying particles. A single cinder, if it caught, might be enough to finish him.
I couldn’t wait Jonathan out. Olga appeared in the doorway, looking at me quizzically. Probably wondering if I had a death wish, to be sitting in the middle of an inferno. “Jonathan’s here,” I told her. “He has Louis-Cesare. If he comes this way—”
“I kill him.”
I nodded. Jonathan might still have some tricks up his sleeve, but then, so might Olga. And his magic would be a lot less effective on a Fey than on someone from our world.