Biting Bad (Chicagoland Vampires 8)

Monmonth bent his knees, then leaped toward Ethan.

Ethan grunted as he spun out of the way, bringing both swords around and pressing the handles together at the blunt ends, the points out, like a staff Darth Maul would have appreciated.

As Monmonth hit the ground in a crouch, his sword poised in front of him, Ethan roared a sound of battle and advanced, spinning the knife-sharp staff back and forth around his body in a complicated pattern.

It was like staring into the blade of a psychotic steel turbine. Even Monmonth froze for a moment, as if not sure how to react.

He nudged away, but not quite fast enough. The chiseled tip of a katana just grazed his arm, sending a bright stripe of crimson to his skin, and sending the spicy scent of powerful blood into the air.

"You son of a bitch!" Monmonth roared. "Do you know who I am?"

He didn't wait for Ethan's response but answered his own question with moves that proved why he'd been chosen for the GP. He became a dervish of kicks and strikes, a martial arts machine. Monmonth was faster than Ethan, but Ethan managed to hold his own. And two blades of finely honed steel didn't hurt.

Ethan spun the staff in a low arc, which Monmonth jumped to avoid. He flipped backward, but upon landing went immediately on the offensive. A spinning kick and series of punches had Ethan moving back and forth to block them. As they fought, they traversed the yard, moving into deeper snow that slowed them down.

Ethan stumbled and dropped one of his swords. Harold kicked the other a few feet away. I was too far away to help, and clapped a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming my fear.

"You have held court here for too long," Harold said, picking up the weapon Ethan had dropped. "You believe you are a king among the American vampires, but you are nothing more than a slave to humans who'd as soon have you dead as look at you. It is the Presidium that rules vampires, not an upstart soldier in the middle of an upstart country."

Harold raised the sword and lifted it, intending to strike downward, slicing Ethan from neck to groin.

"Ethan!" I screamed, jumping to my feet and running for the pair.

But as Harold's sword fell, Ethan managed to grab his. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and struck.

With a single slice of Ethan's sword, Monmonth's head was divorced from his body. It landed, unceremoniously, in the snow beside him.

Ethan tumbled to the side as the rest of Harold Monmonth, the former, fell to the ground.

Ethan climbed to his feet, bloody sword in hand. For a moment, clearly shocked by what he'd done, he stared down, wide-eyed, at Harold Monmonth's lifeless body. His chest heaved, and his body steamed in the cold.

I watched from my spot in the snow, still too shocked to move. I wasn't the only one; the other battles stopped. Grey and Cadogan vampires who'd fought the other members of the GP stepped back, holding their enemies at sword point.

All eyes looked toward Ethan and took in with shock the body on the ground. A chilling silence fell over the yard.

"You've killed him!" yelled out one of the male GP members, a vampire from Canada named Edmund, who rushed toward his fallen colleague and wailed in what seemed earnest despair.

"Murderer!" he yelled, looking back at Ethan and pointing an accusing finger in his direction.

The show of drama seemed to break Ethan from his trance. "Enough!" he bellowed, and silence fell over the yard again.

He pointed his sword at Monmonth's body. "This man came into my House and brought violence, and for the second time. He has killed and threatened our friends and colleagues, to say nothing of his history of violence to the humans who came before us. He forfeited his life in the name of power and ego."

Ethan lifted his silver-eyed gaze to the remaining members of the GP faction who'd trespassed at Cadogan . . . and would be wearing the scars of their journey back to England.

Ethan pointed at Edmund. "Take home a message to Darius West. He gets his House in order, or we do it for him."

-

We found Juliet on the sidewalk, knocked unconscious by a blow to the head. Her sword was on the ground, and by the position of her body, it appeared the GP had snuck up behind her, probably using their glamour to keep their arrival a secret.

While Helen and Delia, Cadogan's resident doctor, attended to Juliet, Ethan, Scott, and I stood outside with a handful of CPD cops in uniform. Fighting among supernaturals was one thing; the death of two humans on our watch was something entirely different.

I stood on the portico, watching Ethan and Scott point across the yard, diagramming for the cops the chain of events. I'd been numbed by the violence, by the GP's remarkable intrusion, and its grisly end. We were all capable of killing, and we'd all been in battles before. But I couldn't recall a time in which death had come so quickly to the House. And not just any death. Two innocent humans were dead. And a member of the GP was dead, and by our hands.

I stared out at the scene, the investigators who took photographs of the crime scene in front of the gate, the swirling blue and red lights of the ambulance that had arrived for Louie's and Angelo's bodies.

An arm slipped around my waist, and I nearly screamed in surprise. I found Lindsey beside me, circles beneath her eyes. She'd been crying.

"This is awful," she said, putting her head on my shoulder. "They were really nice. They had grandkids - both of them. They were talking about soapbox derby cars, how crappy their entries usually were, but how they had big plans this year." She swiped at tears beneath her lashes. "Stupid soapbox derby cars. Totally lame."

I put an arm around her, the sentiment bringing a new wash of tears to my eyes. "I talked to them a little during my shift. They seemed like good guys."

"They were," she confirmed. "Good guys. And not worthy of this end by that goddamn narcissistic GP nightmare."

We looked back at the spot where Ethan had killed Monmonth, his body removed but the snow stained by blood.

We stood silently together, sharing our grief. A few minutes later, the cops walked back through the gate, the ambulance drove away, and the investigators snapped their final photographs.

Ethan and Scott walked back to us.

"They're calling Monmonth's death self-defense," he said, and I felt a vise loosen around my heart. "Considering the violence already done by Monmonth, and the fact that he attacked you, they don't anticipate the prosecuting attorney will want to press charges."

"What about the other GP members?" I asked. They'd split at the sound of ambulances and police cruisers.

"They have private jets," Scott said, "and enough money to get them into the air, law enforcement be damned. They won't stop flying until they reach London."