The air was filled with bullets and Antoine dived to the carpet, but not before two slugs found his side, and another slammed into his hip. His bones were dense enough not to break, but it still hurt like hell. He gritted his teeth against the pain. Bullets ripped through what was left of the windows, destroying the frames, and sprayed across the far wall. The mantelpiece shattered under the fire, and books exploded in a burst of paper fragments.
There had been at least two more intruders in the room, but the hail of gunfire had dropped them, the attackers not hesitating to kill their own for the chance to hit him.
The gas stung his eyes, an acrid stench that burned in his nose despite his healing. He fought the urge to breathe—which was ironic. If he could manage without air for a few weeks, a few seconds shouldn’t matter too much.
Antoine low-crawled behind his wingback chair, its fabric shredded and stuffing spilling out in little white puffs. His injured hip sent shooting pain down his leg, but at least it was cooperating. Enough to get a foot beneath him, and he dashed for the open doorway. To his right was the dining room, which Marcel always kept pristine, though no one ever used it.
He rushed in, ready to kill anyone he found. A figure through the smoke crouched behind the upturned dining table, firing a submachine gun toward the window in controlled bursts. A black respirator obscured his face, and on instinct Antoine almost tore out his throat, but his casual clothing and the direction of his weapon stayed his hand at the last moment. It was Diego, one ofhis own thralls. Nearby lay three bodies, another of Antoine’s thralls and two in black, one missing his gas mask. And his weapon.
Bullets hit the dining room table, and Diego ducked low behind the thick mahogany. Two grenades flew into the room, bouncing off the chairs that lay abandoned like fallen skittles, coming to rest on the carpet, still spinning. Antoine swept them up, throwing them back with a flick of his wrist, then joined Diego behind the table as they detonated with enough concussive force to spray glass through the room.
Outside, men screamed.
Weapons opened fire, and they both hit the ground. Diego pressed himself belly-down to the floor, arms over his head, weapon in his hands, waiting for it to end. Antoine crouched beside him, bullets penetrating the wood above his head, sending splinters flying past. He kept an eye out for more grenades, but they probably wouldn’t try that again. He’d taught them their lesson.
The enemy had enough weapons to keep him pinned down, and when the fire slackened, running boots approached. Men forced their way through the windows, still shooting. But they were close enough for Antoine.
He slid his fingers beneath the table and came up with it in his hands, charging forward blindly toward where he could hear them. It collided hard as someone yelled in pain, then Antoine dropped it and leaped over. Three figures, two knocked dazed, more coming in. But he flowed between them in a graceful swirl, hands flung out to snap a neck, push a weapon high, and drive claws through a throat. Behind him, Diego was on his knees and firing.
The lights came back on, flickered twice, then held steady.
“Shutters are back online!”Zoey said through their link.
“Do it.”
Somewhere in the wall a motor whined high, and ballistic steel slid down over the windows. Fast—by most standards. Yet not fast enough. Two more men ducked beneath as the shutters closed, throwing themselves into the room only to be met withAntoine’s fists, but more rounds flew in with them, and he winced when one struck his upper arm.
Then the shutters slid into place, cutting out what little moonlight had lit the room. Not that Antoine cared. He brushed some of the shredded plaster off his tux jacket, then gave it up as a lost cause.
Diego clutched his chest and dropped to one knee.
“Are you all right?”
Blood welled up between his fingers. “Not dead yet.”
“Can you make it upstairs?”
“Yeah.” He gave a pained grunt. “I’ll camp at the top and make sure no one gets past me.”
“Good man. We’ll get you fixed up when this is over.”
“Outcast!” The shout came from the front of the house. “Where are you, Outcast?”
He didn’t recognize the voice, but no thrall would address him like that.
“Can you stand?” he linked to Diego, not wanting to make more noise than was necessary with another vampire nearby.
Diego staggered to his feet, leaning on Antoine’s offered arm, then stood by himself, clutching at the wound in his chest. He nodded.
Antoine crept to the open doorway of the living room, took a quick look, then pulled back fast. The smoke had faded only slightly, half-obscuring the figures climbing in through the window. But one of them unmistakably wore a suit, flanked on either side by armed thralls.
Tobias.
“Antoine, old man,” he called again. “I know you can hear me. Are you lying bleeding somewhere? We’ll find you.”
Diego pressed a cold steel ball into his hand. “Three-second fuse,” he said into Antoine’s mind.
“Stay out of this,” he sent back. “Keep Cally safe.”
