Pretty When They Collide (Pretty When She Dies 0.5)(42)

“So, what are you, big boy?” Cassandra asked in a mocking tone. “You sure aren’t human.”

“Let’s see if you can guess.”

With a predatory growl, Michael charged at her, arms swinging. Cassandra found herself backing up quickly, blocking the swipes with her forearms and hands. The bruising impact of his attacks registered in the back of her mind, but she was concentrating too hard on his next move to pay it much heed. Dropping to the ground, she crushed more plants under her body as she swept his feet out from under him with her leg.

Landing with a grunt, Michael laughed joyfully. “Now this is getting fun.”

Gunshots erupted in the house, drawing Cassandra’s attention away from Michael as fear gripped her. “Aimee,” she breathed, rising.

Obviously believing her to be distracted, Michael jumped up and struck out at her face. She caught his arm, and unleashed multiple sidekicks into his gut. He grabbed her shoulders and flung her to the ground.

With a chortle, he gazed down at her. “So what am I?”

“Fuck!” Cassandra exclaimed.

Very sharp canine teeth filled his mouth and his eyes were golden yellow. “Surprise.”

“Canis!” The word was a hiss of distaste.

“Such a racist comment,” Michael growled, amused.

Crab-walking away from him on her hands and feet, Cassandra felt a pang of despair as she realized the situation had just worsened. “What are you? A f*cking werewolf?”

Stalking her, Michael shook his head. “Anubis.”

“You mean a jackal. You’re no god,” she said in a mocking voice. Twisting about, she clambered to her feet and dropped into a fighting stance.

Michael shrugged. “You’ll be on your knees before me soon enough, god or no god.”

The bruises he had inflicted upon her were beginning to hurt, but she didn’t dare to use the last of her power to heal. She wasn’t a fighter, she was a thief. Though she could hold her own, she had never truly trained to be the vampire hunter Dr. Summerfield declared she had been born to be. Suddenly, she wished she had trained and learned to harness all her abilities so she would know how to rid herself of the jackal before her. Pummeling him into unconscious was not going to be easy and she would most likely take a thrashing while at it. Plus, she wasn’t feeling particularly up to strength at the moment.

“Oh, f*ck it,” she groaned, and attacked.

Blow for blow, kick for kick, she managed to match the other supernatural creature. Long claws had erupted from his fingertips, but they were ineffectual against her body armor until he managed to drag them across her bare hand. She screamed.

Michael licked her blood from his claw. “Delicious. I want another taste.”

“That’s the only one you get, *!”

Instead of waiting for him to move, she attacked. As they fought, Michael forced her closer and closer to the outer edges of Aimee’s garden. Increasingly dizzy, Cassandra had trouble landing her blows. Michael hammered her with his fists, knees, and feet. Falling back, she stumbled, her legs suddenly giving out on her. Landing in a spray of tall lavender flowers, Cassandra flailed as the world tilted around her. Disoriented, she struggled to get up, but Michael landed on her.

“Ah, did you fall into the nasty vervain?” Michael chuckled, his mouth elongating into a pointed snout edged with long fangs. Darting his head forward, he tried to bite her throat.

Cassandra managed to get her hand up between his maw and her neck just in time. The sharp teeth ripped through her flesh, eliciting a scream of agony. Pressing the palm of her other hand against his forehead, she tried to push him away, but he bit down harder. Bones cracked and blood spilled from her hand.

There was a flutter of movement behind Michael’s head. A second later, the blade of a ceremonial dagger flashed under Michael’s chin. Hot steaming blood poured out of his slit throat as his jaws released his hold on Cassandra.

“We’re done with you,” Aimee’s voice said coldly. She stood just behind him, clutching the dagger she had earlier given to Cassandra. She must have recovered it from the floor of the game room.

Michael thrashed about, trying to staunch the bleeding with his hands.

Aimee extended her hand to Cassandra. “C’mon.”

Head swimming, Cassandra managed to grip the witch’s hand while cradling her injured hand to her chest. Aimee hauled Cassandra to her feet, then pulled her away from the vervain. Instantly, Cassandra began to feel much better.

Glancing toward Michael, Aimee said, “He’s going to heal.”

“We’ll be gone by the time that happens.”

“You need to heal now.” Aimee looked at Michael significantly.

Inside the house, the sounds of battle continued, but at a slower pace. Either Frank’s men were whittling down the last of Arnost’s people, or vice versa. Soon the victor of the battle would be looking for them.

Cassandra motioned to Michael. “Can you get him for me?”

Lips set in a grim line, Aimee held out her hand, then sharply drew it back toward her. Michael’s body was dragged facedown through the remains of the garden to their feet. Seizing his head by his hair, Cassandra pulled it back and drove her sharp teeth into his sweaty skin. She gave him no pleasure, letting him feel every agonizing moment of her feeding. He gurgled, clawing at the ground. The loss of blood had weakened him, but she knew he would heal very soon. The power of his blood unfurled inside of her, hot, primal, and hungry. Struggling to contain it as it mingled with her dark nature, she instantly hated that she had fed from him. The darkness inside her was howling with pleasure and she felt it filling her, quashing her humanity.