Midnight Marked (Chicagoland Vampires 12)

There was no time to wonder whether their magic was working. The tower’s doors burst open, and supernaturals ran forward.

“Fallon, Jeff,” Ethan called out, and we unsheathed our katanas. “Stay with Mallory and Catcher! Keep them safe!”

And we rushed forward.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

A SOUL INSPIRED

Reed had anticipated an attack, and he’d been prepared for it. Maybe by using the individual magic the sorcerer had worked on Kyle Farr, Reed had collected the supernaturals who came out to meet us. There were dozens of them. Shifters, vampires, River trolls, the similar-looking mercenary fairies who’d once guarded our door, River nymphs, and a very tall, willowy creature I’d never seen before.

A dryad, Ethan said silently, as if sensing my confusion. That was a kind of tree nymph, if I remembered my Canon. She had the look—skin that was nearly gray beneath her pale green, Grecian-style dress, hair that was silvery green, and long arms that ended in reedy, pointed fingers.

As if the opening of the doors had unleashed power as well as creatures, magic seemed to pour out of the building. It was intrusive magic, biting and terrible magic that felt like alien fingers pinching, grasping, looking for literal and metaphorical access into our psyches. The bracelet kept the magic out of my head—and I was ridiculously grateful for that—but it didn’t mute the disturbing sensation of it.

The dryad reached me first, swinging her long arms as fluidly as waving branches but as sharp as whips. I dropped and rolled to avoid being snapped by one, came up on the other side, and swept my katana back. I’d slicked a cut across her arm. It seeped green and put the scent of crushed leaves into the air. She made a horrible, windy sound of pain, lashed her arm out again. I’d prepared to drop again, but she adjusted her trajectory at the last minute and caught my ankle.

I hit the ground on my back but shifted my weight and hopped back to my feet just as she moved closer, tried to swipe again. This time, I grabbed her arm; her skin was rough, but it moved in my hand like an eel, which was weirdly disconcerting. I grabbed the dispenser from my belt, pressed it to her arm.

With a scream, she ripped her arm away, leaving ropelike burns on my palm. She stumbled back once, and then her silvery green eyes rolled up and she fell to the ground like a felled tree.

That tranq was damn effective. The fact that the CPD had made it just for sups was probably worth some thought, but not tonight. Tonight was for magic.

“One down,” I said, glancing over the plaza. “A dozen to go.”

Ethan was a few yards away, battling two vampires with slashing katana moves that had him nearly blurring with movement. His opponents were fast, too, at least Strong Phys in the scale of vampire power rankings. But being controlled made them clumsier than they would have been if they’d been fighting on their own.

I don’t see why you get to have all the fun, I said silently, and ran toward him, stepping to one of his opponents as he executed a gorgeous butterfly kick that had the vampire flipping backward.

They fought in silence, I realized. No cursing, no groans of pain, not even grunts of effort—like the ones tennis players made when returning hard plays. There were still sounds—the sharp ping of metal against metal, the shush of fabric, the crunch of glass underfoot. But they didn’t speak at all.

The second vampire lunged for me. I used a side kick to shift his weight. He stumbled to the side but regained his balance and came back at me with silvered eyes and descended fangs. He thrust the katana downward; I used the spine of my sword to deflect, push it away.

Got him, Ethan said, moving forward and slapping the plunger onto the vampire’s back. A pause, and then he crumpled to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Spoilsport, I said, but my cheeky smile was interrupted by an avalanche of screams.

“Everybody take cover!”

I instinctively looked back at the sound of Catcher’s voice, found him running toward us, eyes on the balustrade that separated the plaza from the canal that contained Chicago River.

I followed his gaze. One of the River nymphs stood in front of the wall, her hands lifted toward the river—and the wall of water she’d raised over the river, and apparently planned to drop over the plaza.

“Oh, shit.” Ethan’s voice was a horrible whisper.

“I got it!” Catcher said, and moved toward it, raising two hands, palms out, to face the wall of water that was still growing, towering over the petite nymph who’d lifted it dozens of feet over her head. The wind blew fiercely, sending a mist across the plaza, which glittered with glass, and threatening to drown us all with the surge.

Power crackled around Catcher as he gathered up magic, building a transparent wall that sparked with energy. Slowly, as sweat crossed his brow, he began to push it forward, a sea wall against the tsunami the nymph was threatening.

Their gazes locked on each other, their expressions fierce with determination. They moved toward each other, the wall of water shivering above the nymph as if with anticipation of falling, of covering the earth again. But she was so focused on Catcher that she didn’t see Morgan move around behind her. He watched her and Catcher, gauged the right moment, and moved forward, tagging her with the tranq.