Magic Bleeds (Kate Daniels 4)

“No.”

I halted.

Ted gazed at me with glazed-over eyes. “You belong here. If you leave, then you don’t.”

“People are dying. They called me for help.”

“We’re people. They aren’t. I’m giving you a direct order to stay here.”

I looked at Andrea behind him. She stood still like a statue. Her face was bloodless.

Brenna’s hoarse voice echoed through my memory.

Everything I had worked for, everything I’d done and accomplished to keep Greg’s legacy alive—but none of it was worth a single life.

“Daniels, if you do this, we’re done. No second chances, no forgiveness. Done.”

My fingers found the cord around my neck. I tore it off with a brutal jerk, dropped my ID on the floor, and walked out.

THE SNOW-STREWN CITY FLEW BY ME. I’D GRABBED the first rider I saw, jerked him from his saddle, and stole his horse, telling him to bill the Order for it so I wouldn’t get shot in the back as we galloped away.

We rounded the corner at breakneck speed. The Wolf House swung into view. Dali’s Prowler waited in the middle of the street. She stood next to it, staring at the building, her small body rigid.

She heard me and turned to look at me. Her mouth opened.

A body burst through the second-floor window in a cascade of glass shards. It plummeted through the air, a grotesque shape, neither human nor animal, huge claws poised to rend. The shape landed on top of the car and smashed into Dali, knocking her off her feet with a guttural snarl.

I tore at the reins, trying to slow down my horse. The horse screamed.

Warped, twisted, covered with random patches of fur and exposed muscle, the beast pinned Dali to the ground, clawing at her with black talons. Dali threw her arms up, trying to shield her throat.

I jumped off my horse and hit the ground running.

Blood sprayed the snow, shockingly red against the white. Dali’s high voice screamed in a hysteric frenzy.

“Stop, it’s me, it’s me!”

I snapped a side kick, putting everything I had into it. My foot smashed into the beast’s side, knocking it back. The creature rolled and sprung to all fours.

If it was a shapeshifter in a warrior form, it was the worst one I had ever seen. Its left arm was too short, its pelvis tilted too far forward, its bottom jaw jutted to the side, overflowing with fangs. Above that awful jaw, its face was almost human. Green eyes glared at me. Every hair on my neck stood up. I’d seen that face yesterday, smiling at me.

“Brenna?”

A vicious growl spilled from Brenna’s deformed mouth. She shook. Gashes crisscrossed her body, oozing black pus and blood, as if her skin had randomly burst in places.

Dali scrambled back on her butt, leaving bloody tracks in the snow, until she bumped into the car with her head.

“Brenna, it’s me! It’s me. We’re friends. Please don’t.”

Brenna snarled again.

“Brenna, don’t do this.” I stepped toward her.

Brenna’s eyes fixed on Dali with the unwavering focus of a predator about to charge.

“Please, please don’t.” Dali pressed tighter against the car. “Please!”

Brenna lunged.

Her mangled body flew above the snow, as if she had wings.

Brenna or Dali. No time to think.

I lunged forward and sliced at her back. Slayer cut through flesh, aborting Brenna’s charge in midleap. She twisted in the air and hit me. Huge jaws fastened on my leg, searing my thigh with pain.

“No!” Dali screamed.

I cut again, cleaving through her spine.

Brenna’s fangs let go. She crashed into the snow, jerking like a marionette on the strings of a mad puppeteer. Blood and spit flew from her terrible mouth. She growled and bit the air again and again, rending invisible enemies with her teeth. Behind me Dali sobbed uncontrollably.

I raised Slayer and brought it down. The saber pierced Brenna’s chest. I twisted the blade, ripping her heart to pieces. In my head, Brenna’s voice said, “Don’t worry, Kate, I won’t drop you.”

Brenna stopped thrashing. The glow in her eyes dimmed.

Dali whimpered small incoherent noises.

A tortured snarl echoed through the street. I jerked Slayer free and whirled to the building. A clawed arm scratched at the first-floor window next to the door. Thick fingers slid on the glass, leaving bloody streaks.

Bloody hell.

I grabbed Dali and pulled her to her feet. “Dali! Look at me.”

She stared, wild-eyed. “I knew, I knew something was wrong, I drove up, and it didn’t smell right—”

“Get into the car. Drive down two blocks, go into the bakery, and call the Keep. No matter what happens, don’t leave the store. Do you understand?”

“Don’t go in there!”

“I have to go. If they get out, they might kill somebody.”

“Then I’ll come with you.” She wiped at her face with the back of her hand. “I’m a fucking tiger.”

A vegetarian, cross-eyed, half-blind tiger who got sick at the sight of blood. “No. I need you to get into the car and go call Curran. Please.”

She nodded.

I released her. “Go.”

A moment later the Prowler rolled down the street. I stepped over its tracks. The door of the house gaped open, like a black mouth.

I pushed the door open with my fingertips.

A body sprawled across the rug ten feet away. It lay in a tangle of shredded clothes, stained with black pus. A bitter odor filled the hallway, like the scent of chicken meat gone to rot.

I’d seen shapeshifters bleed gray before, when struck with silver. Silver killed Lyc-V, and the dead virus turned gray. To bleed black, Lyc-V had to be present in record numbers in the body. Only loups carried that much virus in them.

I stepped inside. The carpet muffled my footsteps. Above something thudded.

Slow and easy.

I reached the body. He lay on his stomach. Dark lesions striped his back, filled with viscous ichor, so dark it resembled tar. The odor of rot choked the air. I gagged and nudged the body with my foot. The head lolled. Unseeing milky eyes looked up at me from an unfamiliar face. Dead.

I kept moving through the long corridor.

Right room, clear.

Left, clear.

Right, clear.

Kitchen.

A pot boiled over on the stove. Two shapeshifters lay unmoving. One sprawled on top of the table, midway through the change, his body a mess of fur and skin. His deformed limbs clutched at the table, bones exposed, torn muscle oozing pus onto the green tablecloth. A chef’s knife protruded from his neck, pinning him to the table.