Dozens of feet above where she stood, the top of the Control Tower tapered into a sheer, blade-like finial. And at its very top, hovering between two spokes of cristala, was the magic that created the forcefield—burning like a red star. Like the Scarlet Star.
Loren was just considering how she was going to get to the top when a white blur smashed into her, and she went flying into open air.
59
Calanthe slammed into her with the force of a truck.
Loren dug her nails into the cristala as she skidded across the ledge, the leather-like material of her bodysuit squealing on the glass.
She slid to a halt just in time not to topple off the tower—though her legs kicked as she scrambled back onto the overhang, the sight of all those cars and people, no larger than pinholes, sending her stomach plummeting out her ass and through her feet.
Calanthe alighted on the finial of the Control Tower, her vampiric form more horrific than Loren had imagined it.
Skin white as bone, with talon-like hands and feet. Her leathery wings were so vast, they blotted out the rising sun spreading its light across the desert hills in the distance. Blood-red eyes were set in deep sockets, the papery, near-translucent skin beneath stained the bluish-purple of bruises.
The vampire gave her a cold smile, her elongated canines glinting. “Give me the antidote, Calla.”
Loren tightened her hold on the glass vial as she pushed herself to her feet. “Never.”
“That our replica failed means nothing,” Calanthe said matter-of-factly. “You can still find the real Arcanum Well. And as long as that is true, my people and I will always be looking for you. There’s nowhere you’ll be able to hide.”
“Correction,” Loren said in a hard voice. “As long asyouare still alive, there may be nowhere I can hide.”
Calanthe’s grin exposed all her teeth. “Do you mean to say that you’re going to kill me, Miss Calla?”
Loren smiled back. “That isexactlywhat I mean to say.”
Calanthe’s wings snapped open, and she dove for her with an ear-shattering screech.
Loren bided her time, planting her feet in place as Calanthe neared and neared. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she forced it to quiet, to steady its thundering.
Just as the vampire swept for her, clawed hands and feet aimed to punch through her throat, Loren called Singer out of his shadow.
—
The Familiar was a streak of darkness as he leapt for the vampire with a guttural snarl, the surprise of his attack—and existence—catching Calanthe off-guard and sending her careening into the tower, where he began tearing viciously into her wings with teeth and nails.
As soon as Calanthe collided with the cristala, the force of the blow cracking the panel, Loren ran for her, pressing the latch mechanism on the inside of her left wrist as she moved.
A silver stake shot out of where it was concealed against her forearm and into her waiting hand, the wicked point at the one end flashing like the stars that’d faded away into a dawning sky. She moved as fast as she could, arms pumping at her sides, as she hurtled for the vampire of the Blood Rose, eyes zeroing in with deadly intent on her silent heart.
The Well gave another awful call that rolled over the city, shaking the tower and rendering Calanthe immobile and deaf for one precious second. A second that meant everything.
But as Loren dove for her with a battle-cry, silver stake raised in hand, the vampire parried the attack with a sharp kick to Singer’s ribs.
Singer’s body soared through the air, where he slammed into Loren, knocking the breath out of her lungs in awhoosh. He hit Loren so hard, she crashed to the ground, pain crackling up her tailbone and into her spine. Gritting her teeth against the ache, she sat up—barely on time to see Calanthe swooping full-tilt for her neck, her mouth a horrible gaping pit.
Loren counted the seconds—the measly three that she had—mustering every ounce of energy that remained in her tired and aching body.
And when the vampire reached her, Loren’s hold on the stake tightened. She jumped to her feet and struck.
The stake tore through Calanthe’s chest, the force of the blow through bone and muscle reverberating up Loren’s arm and into her shoulder.
The silver burned Calanthe’s skin black, her features twisting as she howled in pain, the wings that were riddled with bite-wounds and claw-marks flapping as she tried to right herself—as she tried dislodging the stake from her shoulder.
Loren dove out of the way before one of those wings could slam into her, and she watched as Calanthe tumbled off the edge of the tower, gravity yanking her and her flightless wings toward the asphalt far below.
The city rumbled; Loren nearly fell off the tower from the force of it. She crouched down to keep from losing her balance, closing her eyes and bracing her hands on the ground as she rode out the tremor, counting the seconds.
