Soul Taken (Mercy Thompson #13)(105)

A wailing roar reminded me that there was still a fight going on—and I knew that sound. I knew what I was going to face before I turned to look.

Adam . . . the beast that fought Bonarata wasn’t anything like a werewolf. Though his hind legs were articulated like a wolf’s, he stood mostly upright by choice—aided by overly long arms that could balance him when necessary. Adam’s face was a monstrous distortion of a wolf’s head, with an undershot jaw and teeth that would have done credit to a predator twice his size—and he was huge.

Bonarata must have gotten closer to me than we’d planned for Adam to have given himself up to the cursed monster. Then I noticed there were pieces of a gun scattered about. Somehow, though we went armed with guns ourselves, neither of us had considered what might happen if Bonarata had a gun.

I thought of the shot I’d heard. Unlike his change to the wolf, Adam’s change to this beast could be instantaneous, quick enough for him to stop Bonarata from shooting me. To save me, Adam had given himself over to the beast.

Adam’s monster was built for fighting. It was faster than his wolf form and armed with outsized claws and fangs. Even though Adam wasn’t in charge of this form, his instincts were still honed by half a century of fighting and training.

Bonarata looked fragile next to Adam. He’d armed himself with Adam’s bō but he still should have been outmatched.

I had never seen anything like the beauty of that fight.

I’d known Bonarata had been a fighter. But I’d just watched Wulfe fight—no-holds-barred—and if he had not lost to Adam, he had not won, either.

Maybe if Adam had been fully in control of that beast, he might have stood a chance, but it was obvious to me after watching for a few seconds that Bonarata was going to kill Adam.

I drew my own gun—but the speed at which they were moving meant that I’d have a better chance of hitting Adam than Bonarata because Adam was bigger. My hand was shaking so badly—from the after-effects of the magic I’d poured into Wulfe—that I didn’t dare try.

My foot touched the sickle and I felt it tug at me.

I could help you kill the vampire, the Soul Taker whispered. The sound of its truth wound around my heart.

I jerked my foot away . . . and hesitated.

The fight between Adam and Wulfe had been almost musical, the percussive sounds of weapon on weapon and light feet on the ground. The fight between Bonarata and Adam was not. I had the feeling that if I understood Italian, Bonarata’s vocabulary would have rivaled Ben at his best as he screamed insults in a stream of rage. Adam’s monster’s inchoate howls and roars made Bonarata’s battle cries insignificant.

I saw Bonarata swing, and this time Adam didn’t move away in time. There was a crack that sounded like a baseball bat hitting a home run, and Adam reeled back, one arm at a funny angle. He grabbed that wrist with the opposite hand, overlarge even on such a huge body, and jerked it. The arm snapped again, though not as loudly. It was hard to tell, because none of his limbs looked as though they were natural, but I thought he must have either reset a joint—or pulled a broken bone straight so it could heal.

The whole thing took only a second. Adam reengaged with Bonarata, though he visibly favored the arm that had been injured. While Adam was dealing with his arm, Bonarata had glanced at me and seen the Soul Taker.

I didn’t see him do it. I felt the Soul Taker take notice.

Take me up, it told me. Take me up or face me in the hands of the Lord of Night.

Bonarata caught Adam in the ribs and broke the bō on him. The monster fell but rolled back to his feet immediately. Now Adam’s breath was harsh and labored, and he whined with each intake. The arm Bonarata had hit seemed to be okay now, but there was a dent in Adam’s rib cage.

He will be better than the last one, the Soul Taker told me. The Lord of Night is strong. I can break strong.

Bonarata was moving the fight so that it neared the place where I stood, indecisive and scared to the bone. I bent down to take up the sickle—and Bonarata lunged for it at the same time.

I could have beaten him to it, but I could not force myself to touch it. Bonarata’s hand closed on the blade, and it cut his flesh. I felt a cold chill sweep through me—the Soul Taker’s joy at the power of the blood of the Lord of Night. There was still a moment left for me to grab the handle. I could not do it.

Through the blood tie that stretched between the Soul Taker and me, I understood as soon as it did that the artifact could never bind to the soul of the Lord of Night. Not in a week. Not in a century. Influence, yes, but the vampire’s mind was impenetrable in a way that the Soul Taker understood better than I did.

Bonarata smiled at me as he let Adam rip the Soul Taker from his careless hold while I screamed a hopeless protest.

Adam’s oversized hand made the sickle look absurdly small. He jerked it back and Bonarata hissed, his blood splattering the ground and me.

Adam roared at him, and for a moment I thought everything would be okay—but only because in that moment the only thing I could feel was my mate. Then Adam dropped to the ground as if he’d been shot. He curled around the hand that held the Soul Taker as if to protect it, hiding both hand and artifact from view. Every muscle of his body was rigid, the corded veins growing more defined. He made an indescribable noise that hurt my ears as the Soul Taker began to turn Adam into its wielder.

Bonarata put his hand to his mouth and licked delicately at the wound the Soul Taker had left.