Frozen, I couldn’t make a decision. But my hand opened and I let the gun go.
Cabe jumped toward Anastasia, stake raised, shouting in rage. She braced, preparing a defense, teeth bared, hissing. I dove for the gun, running forward in the same motion.
Grant leapt forward—putting himself in front of Anastasia, protecting her—and grappled with Cabe. It happened too fast; I didn’t see what led to Odysseus Grant falling, holding his bandaged hands to his chest. But I could guess: he’d put himself in front of the stake meant for the vampire. He clutched the length of it sticking from his rib cage. Cabe stood over him, stunned, staring, panting like a wild beast.
I steadied myself, aimed the way I’d been taught, and fired the last of the gun’s shots. Cabe jerked, fell back, and didn’t move again.
The world fell silent, still, my hearing masked with cotton by the sound of those gunshots. I’d killed again—too late, this time.
Anastasia crouched by Grant’s head, held his shoulders, and stared at the stake in his chest with a shocked gaze. Red rashes from the holy water streaked her beautiful face, which was creased with either pain or grief. She hadn’t even looked so distraught when we lost Gemma. Numb, I dropped to my knees beside them, gripped Grant’s wrists, which were braced around the protruding stake, and searched him for life and movement. His eyes were open, looking back at me, and his lips smiled faintly. A time like this, and he smiled.
Tell me what to do, I pleaded silently, meeting his gaze. I had gone feral, Wolf in my eyes, in my senses, unable to form words.
“Kitty,” he murmured, coughed, and I squeezed tighter, urging him to lie back, not to struggle. But he never listened to me. “It’s a trance—tell them.”
He coughed, and blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. Air bubbled in the blood around the wound at his chest.
“Odysseus,” Anastasia breathed.
“Slows heart rate. Blood pressure.” Another cough, with more red foam sliding down his chin. “Not dead. Tell them.”
He met my gaze, nodded once, then closed his eyes. Laid his head back, almost in Anastasia’s lap. His breathing slowed, then slowed again. My hands were on his wrists, I felt his pulse, I heard his heart—it also slowed. Dimmed.
“No,” I murmured, my voice finally unsticking. “No, Grant, no, no—”
Anastasia squeezed my shoulder, and I looked at her with round eyes, wolfish. My throat was tight, preparing to howl.
“Kitty,” she said, her voice low. “He knows what he’s doing. A trance, so he won’t bleed out. He’s saving himself.”
If anyone could do such a thing, it would be Grant. I shook my head. “It won’t do any good—we’re still stuck here. He needs an ambulance now, Tina needs an ambulance—”
Anastasia went to Cabe’s body and started searching it. “One of them has to have a satellite phone—they had to have a way of calling out.”
I couldn’t do anything else for Grant; I couldn’t find a pulse and assumed he was unconscious. He didn’t smell dead. So I went inside to check on Tina.
She’d managed to pull herself to the door. Curled up, hugging her middle, she looked out. Blood covered her hands. Her eyes were bright and, unbelievably, she was smiling.
“Tina.” Kneeling by her, I took hold of her shoulder.
“It’s okay. Kitty, it’s going to be okay,” she said, gasping. “Listen.”
“What? What is it? Tina—”
She gripped my arm with bloody hands. “Listen!”
I held my breath and listened. At first, I thought it was thunder, a distant rumble. But it didn’t fade. It was regular, steady, and getting louder.
The thump of a helicopter motor filled the valley. A helicopter. Oh my God.
I ran off the porch, calling, “Anastasia!”
“I hear it,” she said, standing and looking toward the meadow and airstrip.
Still running, I headed down the path and looked up. A searchlight panned over me from above. I waved my arms, jumped up and down, shouted. The aircraft could have belonged to Provost and friends, it could have opened fire on me, and I was too tired to care.
But the helicopter was red, with th
e words “Search and Rescue” painted on the side.