Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

Maguire lifted a shoulder. “Once again, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“You’d be bringing the wrath of the entire CPD down on the Circle, on you.”

He laughed haughtily. “You think the CPD can touch us? There is nothing that’s happened in this city for ten years that we haven’t approved. That includes your father’s little pet project.”

I might not have liked my father overmuch, but that didn’t mean I wanted him involved with the Circle. “Stay away from my family.”

“That’s quite impossible, since your family keeps jumping into my business. You may be immortal, doll, but we’re connected.”

“We?” I asked, and Maguire’s expression darkened. “You mean you aren’t running this little shit show yourself? Color me surprised.”

His eyes flashed with fury, and the man behind me offered the punishment, twisting my arm harder. I winced, but kept my eyes on Maguire.

“I don’t respect a man who doesn’t fight his own battles. And speaking of which, if you’re truly a ‘Circle,’ where’s the rest of your gang? Is it these guys? Because . . .” I glanced around, tried to look patently unimpressed.

The man behind me wrenched my arm again, this time maneuvering it up, forcing my head down, my cheek to the sticky wooden floor, littered with dirt, crumbs, and probably worse.

“You like to run your mouth,” Maguire said. “A pity, since I bet it could be used for so many other more interesting things.”

“Tell me about Balthasar.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We know the Circle’s paying for his condo. Why?”

“You think I have anything to do with that freak? No. He’s not my idea. He’s fucking nuts, is what he is.”

Stay down, Morgan said, his gaze still steady on Maguire.

It took me a moment to adjust to his voice in my head, but it’s not like I could have moved anyway. What?

Stay down. I’m moving in three . . . two . . . one.

With blurring speed, Morgan dropped his arms, crossed them, pulled something small and flat from his jeans pockets, wrenched them out again. I dropped my head as something whizzed millimeters above it. There was a cry, and my arm was free.

Pain shot through it from shoulder to wrist as circulation returned and nerves pulsed. I ignored it, pushed past it, jumped to my feet while looking to see what damage Morgan had done.

Maguire and the man who’d grabbed me had small discs—plastic throwing stars—extruding from their chests. They must have missed them on the pat-down.

They were screaming with pain, gripping with slick and bloody fingers at the barbed coins, trying to pull them out.

“Get them, damn it!” Maguire yelled, even as he stumbled backward into a chair, still groping at the missile. “And don’t kill them. We need them alive.”

The rest of the muscle rushed forward.

I didn’t waste time. I jumped onto the pool table, darted across green felt, and jumped down again to the case of pool cues on the opposite wall. I grabbed two.

“Morgan!” I yelled out, and jumped onto the table again, just missing the outflung arms of one of the men who’d sat quietly during the rest of Maguire’s little show. They must not have been the first string.

“Clear!” Morgan said, and I tossed a cue to him. The man tried to grab my boot; I kicked him in the face, bone and cartilage crunching. He yelped, covered his face with a hand, and stumbled back, making room for the next one. He’d thought to bring a cue, swung it at my shins. I jumped to avoid the first swipe, hopped onto the table’s wooden edging, flipped onto the floor again, and brought the broad end of the cue around, nailing him in the shoulder.

The thrill of the fight—the flood of adrenaline—rushed through me, dampening doubt and sharpening my movements, my focus.

I knocked one man to the floor, but another followed him, as if emerging from the house’s crevices like a scuttling insect. He’d grabbed his own pool cue, and swung it at me like a hitter who’d pointed to left field.

I brought up my cue to strike, and he shattered it with enough force that it reverberated down my spine. With a thunderous crack, my cue splintered in half, and I instinctively turned from the sound and shards of flying wood that I really, really hoped weren’t aspen—the only wood that could reduce me to ash if well aimed.

The man cursed with victory, reset for another swing, this one higher—and aimed at my head.