Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires, #12)(102)

Ethan was a few yards away, battling two vampires with slashing katana moves that had him nearly blurring with movement. His opponents were fast, too, at least Strong Phys in the scale of vampire power rankings. But being controlled made them clumsier than they would have been if they’d been fighting on their own.

I don’t see why you get to have all the fun, I said silently, and ran toward him, stepping to one of his opponents as he executed a gorgeous butterfly kick that had the vampire flipping backward.

They fought in silence, I realized. No cursing, no groans of pain, not even grunts of effort—like the ones tennis players made when returning hard plays. There were still sounds—the sharp ping of metal against metal, the shush of fabric, the crunch of glass underfoot. But they didn’t speak at all.

The second vampire lunged for me. I used a side kick to shift his weight. He stumbled to the side but regained his balance and came back at me with silvered eyes and descended fangs. He thrust the katana downward; I used the spine of my sword to deflect, push it away.

Got him, Ethan said, moving forward and slapping the plunger onto the vampire’s back. A pause, and then he crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Spoilsport, I said, but my cheeky smile was interrupted by an avalanche of screams.

“Everybody take cover!”

I instinctively looked back at the sound of Catcher’s voice, found him running toward us, eyes on the balustrade that separated the plaza from the canal that contained Chicago River.

I followed his gaze. One of the River nymphs stood in front of the wall, her hands lifted toward the river—and the wall of water she’d raised over the river, and apparently planned to drop over the plaza.

“Oh, shit.” Ethan’s voice was a horrible whisper.

“I got it!” Catcher said, and moved toward it, raising two hands, palms out, to face the wall of water that was still growing, towering over the petite nymph who’d lifted it dozens of feet over her head. The wind blew fiercely, sending a mist across the plaza, which glittered with glass, and threatening to drown us all with the surge.

Power crackled around Catcher as he gathered up magic, building a transparent wall that sparked with energy. Slowly, as sweat crossed his brow, he began to push it forward, a sea wall against the tsunami the nymph was threatening.

Their gazes locked on each other, their expressions fierce with determination. They moved toward each other, the wall of water shivering above the nymph as if with anticipation of falling, of covering the earth again. But she was so focused on Catcher that she didn’t see Morgan move around behind her. He watched her and Catcher, gauged the right moment, and moved forward, tagging her with the tranq.

She dropped, and the water—now forty feet high—hovered above the plaza.

Sweat popping across his brow, Catcher took one step forward, then another, blue sparks flying around his hands as the water shivered, lifted. He sucked in a breath, as if gathering up his resources, then gave the water a final shove.

Loud as a train, the water flew back toward the river, but unevenly, rushing across the Michigan Avenue Bridge—pushing CPD cruisers into one another with another mighty crash—before falling back to the river again.

Catcher fell to his knees, body limp with exhaustion. That was the downside of being a sorcerer; you had to recharge.

“Hey,” I said, running toward him and crouching in front of him. “You all right?”

“Took a lot out of me.”

“Yeah, saving a few thousand people can do that. That was a pretty good Moses routine—you know, parting the waters and all.”

He looked up at me, a half smile on his face. “Are you making a joke at a time like this?”

“Catcher Bell,” I said, offering a hand and helping him climb to his feet, “if you can’t make a joke at a time like this, what’s the point of living?”

“I guess.”

“Are you going to be able to help Mallory? I could call Paige, get her out here.”

“I can manage it,” he said, testy as ever. “Paige has to stay on the House ward.”

“In that case,” I said, and pulled the slightly squashed PowerBar from my pocket, handed it to him, “you’ll need this more than me.”

Catcher accepted it, looked at me with a warm smile. “Did you bring a battle snack?”

Since he’d already ripped open the package and bit in, I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to respond.

Ethan ran toward us as a different magical pas de deux occurred behind him—the QE and the countermagic battled for control, the green tendrils in the sky waving erratically as power fought power.

“We’ve got a path toward the building,” Ethan said.

“Then use it,” Catcher said with a nod, stuffing the wrapper in his jeans as he ran back toward Mallory. “And thanks for the battle snack!”

“Which are a brilliant idea!” I yelled back as Ethan rounded up the troops to head inside.

“Get to the elevators!” he called out, waiting until the rest of the team had acknowledged the order. Stairs would have been cooler, but that was the tricky part about having to battle on the top floor of a would-be high-rise.

We made it into the building—Gabriel bringing up the rear in his wolf form—just as another bolt of magic flashed outside the building. It hit the pavement like Thor’s hammer, putting a crater in the plaza as big as a car, and sending shrapnel into the air.