Sealed with a Curse
Page 24
Misha frowned. “She must have exhausted a great deal of the lake’s power during battle. She may not be able to go on.”
Emme struggled to sit, jumping as the thunder pounded the skies. “I’m okay. I just need a minute.”
“No, Emme. You’re done.” It hurt just to say the words. I couldn’t face her, and turned to Misha. “Remember your promise?”
Misha locked eyes with Tim. Tim stumbled back, fear and anger distorting his features. “No, Master. I die with you and only you.”
“Obeying your master supersedes all, including my destruction,” Misha commanded. “Now. Do as I ask.”
Tim scowled—at me, of course—before placing the barrel of his rifle over his shoulder and tucking Emme against him with his free arm. Emme shot me all her hurt and betrayal in one last glance while her legs kicked in vain. I averted my gaze and so did my remaining sisters.
Misha’s family hissed my way. Vampires were all about the warm-and-fuzzies. I ignored them to take in the mammoth dwelling. “Let’s circle around and get close to the castle.”
Everyone stood except for Hank. As Misha’s bodyguard, he didn’t appreciate my taking charge. Taran slapped his arm. “We all want to go home alive—well, you dead freaks know what I mean—so back off and quit acting like a little bitch.”
Misha’s hard stare motivated Hank to his feet. We moved swiftly and silently, circling the perimeter of the forest. The rain and thunder the only sounds. We stopped when Hank crouched and held up his fist. I moved to his side and peeked around the trees. A third guard had arrived in the short time it had taken us to reach the side of the building.
I turned to Shayna. “Do you still have your toothpicks?” She reached into her pocket and brandished the box. “Okay, time to take out the bad guys.”
Shayna snatched a few toothpicks up in her hand, then skipped toward the guards with her dark ponytail bouncing merrily behind her.
The guards eyed Shayna, dumbfounded. One guy wiped his eyes. “The f**k?”
Hank looked incredulous. “Why the hell is she skipping?”
“It is a tactic to distract the guards,” Misha whispered. “I am sure of it.”
Taran huffed. “Actually, the little goof always skips when she’s excited.”
Just as the vampires let out a collective groan, Shayna proved just how bad a good girl could be. Their eyes widened when she transformed three toothpicks in her hands into long needles and she launched them into the guards. One. Two. Three. Shayna didn’t miss. Three explosions of ash. Three redeceased vampires.
We slipped in through the back door, moving cautiously. Candles dimly lit a large kitchen right out of the Dark Ages. Hank motioned us forward, down a long stone corridor. I listened for any signs of movement, breathing—anything, but all was quiet.
We reached the end of the passageway and spread out along a vast foyer. Tapestries covered the walls, and a huge gas chandelier shone light against the carefully polished and heavy Elizabethan-period furniture. Nothing big and green attacked, and no dead bodies littered the floor. There was only quiet. And in a way that scared me more.
Taran threw her hands in the air. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “Where the hell is that psycho Zhahara?”
And that’s when the “psycho” decided to show.
A roar, deep and throaty at first, then high-pitched and squealing, shattered the stained-glass windows, forcing me to change and emerge as my beast.
I lifted my head toward the escalating pounding and amplified cries, and moved to stand in front of my sisters. One of the vamps yanked a battle-ax off the wall and shoved it into Shayna’s free hand. If Shayna hadn’t thought she needed it, another toe-curling bellow reassured her the more weapons, the merrier.
The pounding grew louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Slurp.
Slurp?
Taran’s hands fired bright with blue and white flames. “Oh, shit.”
Thump. Thump. Gurgle.
A growl rumbled my chest, the urge to attack growing.
Misha’s eyes turned into that tumultuous gunmetal gray right before the first funnel of a tornado takes shape. “You belong to the House of Aleksandr,” he hissed in a voice I no longer recognized. “You will show no fear, feel no pain, know only triumph.”
“Know only triumph,” his family repeated.
Thump.
Then silence. Only silence.
Before the dungeon door aviated off its hinges.
A leg extended out, long and thick as a log yet as elegant as a homecoming queen’s. Zhahara’s new and scary ten-foot frame stepped out smoothly, sucking a man’s neck like a mango while three other limp and very dead humans hung tucked beneath her arm. Zhahara’s smooth mocha skin and beautiful features had vanished, replaced by a contorted bat face and pig ears. Green blood coursed beneath her densely muscled skin as she stood na**d before us. In her defense, not even a set of curtains could have enshrouded her massive form. But Lord, I’d wished her thirst had allowed her time to throw something on. Every section of hair on her body lay in thick, matted clumps. Every section.
Taran gasped. “Girlfriend needs a wax.”
Zhahara blinked her black, beady eyes my way, tilting her head in curiosity. She tossed the mummified form she’d been working on over her shoulder and drew another to her mouth. We jerked at the sickening crunch her fangs made when they bit through her victim’s neck. She suckled patiently while she pondered her “there’s a tigress in my living room” dilemma.
She paused, mid–human drainage, and her nostrils flared. She’d noticed Misha. And that’s when her royal pissed-off-ness returned. She dropped her pile of people. They fell in a cluster, their heads lolling against their backs as Zhahara narrowed her soulless eyes at him. She screamed.
And we attacked.
Thunder hammered, rattling the castle as Taran’s fire sent Zhahara soaring down the hall. Taran’s power held strong—too strong; her body shook, and she screamed from the conduit of heat she pummeled into Zhahara. And still it wasn’t enough.
Zhahara’s limbs parachuted out like an X; she dug the nails of her hands and feet into the stone walls until they halted her descent. The vampires rushed her, giving Shayna mere moments to drag Taran’s failing body away from the fight.
Zhahara squashed a vamp’s head between her hands and swatted the others off like insects. They fell in a heap with a hard smash. The vampire who landed at her feet screamed when Zhahara’s foot crunched through her chest and into her heart.
My sisters muffled their cries. The fall of Misha’s family took seconds—so did my reaction time. My fangs found her neck; my claws dug into her back, a mere breath behind Misha’s vicious onslaught.
We rolled on the floor, crashing and demolishing furniture, overturning statues lining the wall, striving to get the upper hand, but managing only to keep from dying. Zhahara beat her boulder-size fists into my back until my muscles screamed in agony and my bones snapped.
I drew in an agonizing breath and shifted Zhahara down to her waist, her form too large for my declining strength. My claws scratched the stone in my attempt to scramble away. Zhahara’s thick fingers clasped my ankle, shattering it with a single squeeze, while her other hand drummed Misha against the floor.
Shayna appeared, wielding her battle-ax and driving it into the wrist that held me. In a furious holler, Zhahara hit Shayna with Misha’s body, sending her screaming into Taran.
Misha’s eyes shot open. He whipped around while Zhahara continued her vise grip to his thigh and attacked—peeling her burned, distorted face off in chunks. My back claws pushed into her neck, twisting and cutting through the putrid flesh, while my front claws dug into the floor as I tried to break away. Misha stripped her face down to bone, spilling the green blood like foaming sewer water. But it took more than that to kill a creature sick with hunger.
Zhahara twisted my leg, separating my femur from the socket, and hurled me toward the sweeping staircase.
A rush of warm fluid filled my mouth. I spit out the bright red mess and wheezed. A long piece of railing protruded through my chest. Below me, Misha staggered to his feet, barely keeping his balance. His head flopped against his back and blood spilled from his mutilated leg. Taran and Shayna lay near the doorway to the hall. Their breath rose and fell slowly in sync as frustrated tears streaked their bloodied faces.
Clumps of gray ash scattered from the relentless wind sweeping in through the destroyed windows while the rolling thunder continued to hammer. Out of Misha’s family, only four remained. They struggled like babies, using the walls and furniture to help them stand, frantic to help their master.
Zhahara’s fists busted the pavers, despite her missing face, despite her dangling wrist, despite my gashes to her neck sputtering her blood. She was almost free. I knew it and so did Misha.
Misha stumbled as he rose and snapped his own neck back into place. He met my eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered, then marched forward to meet his fate.
I wanted to help Misha. I wanted to help all of us. And yet I couldn’t even help myself. My body screamed at the unfairness. But then I heard it: the rumbling sound of a runaway train, hurtling toward the castle as it gathered momentum.
I smiled on the inside.
Shit happened.
But so did magic.
Giant headlights illuminated the foyer as a deep horn blasted and the earth shook. The vampires launched themselves to shield my sisters. Misha leaped on top of me, covering my head with his body as the blaring force sideswiped the entry and jolted the entire castle. Chunks of granite and stone battered my hide. Metal twisted, glass shattered, and a little voice screamed with growing strain. Above us, the gas chandelier erupted into a fireball and the walls and ceiling cracked and crumbled.
It wasn’t until the last shudder ceased that Misha slid off my stunned form.
A Greyhound bus rested in a tilt over what used to be the foyer. Part of the castle’s second story hovered over its roof like an awning, spilling bricks in loud clangs against the warped metal. The castle’s entire front facade had been demolished into nothing more than a pile of rubble, powder, and broken glass.
Emme struggled to sit, jumping as the thunder pounded the skies. “I’m okay. I just need a minute.”
“No, Emme. You’re done.” It hurt just to say the words. I couldn’t face her, and turned to Misha. “Remember your promise?”
Misha locked eyes with Tim. Tim stumbled back, fear and anger distorting his features. “No, Master. I die with you and only you.”
“Obeying your master supersedes all, including my destruction,” Misha commanded. “Now. Do as I ask.”
Tim scowled—at me, of course—before placing the barrel of his rifle over his shoulder and tucking Emme against him with his free arm. Emme shot me all her hurt and betrayal in one last glance while her legs kicked in vain. I averted my gaze and so did my remaining sisters.
Misha’s family hissed my way. Vampires were all about the warm-and-fuzzies. I ignored them to take in the mammoth dwelling. “Let’s circle around and get close to the castle.”
Everyone stood except for Hank. As Misha’s bodyguard, he didn’t appreciate my taking charge. Taran slapped his arm. “We all want to go home alive—well, you dead freaks know what I mean—so back off and quit acting like a little bitch.”
Misha’s hard stare motivated Hank to his feet. We moved swiftly and silently, circling the perimeter of the forest. The rain and thunder the only sounds. We stopped when Hank crouched and held up his fist. I moved to his side and peeked around the trees. A third guard had arrived in the short time it had taken us to reach the side of the building.
I turned to Shayna. “Do you still have your toothpicks?” She reached into her pocket and brandished the box. “Okay, time to take out the bad guys.”
Shayna snatched a few toothpicks up in her hand, then skipped toward the guards with her dark ponytail bouncing merrily behind her.
The guards eyed Shayna, dumbfounded. One guy wiped his eyes. “The f**k?”
Hank looked incredulous. “Why the hell is she skipping?”
“It is a tactic to distract the guards,” Misha whispered. “I am sure of it.”
Taran huffed. “Actually, the little goof always skips when she’s excited.”
Just as the vampires let out a collective groan, Shayna proved just how bad a good girl could be. Their eyes widened when she transformed three toothpicks in her hands into long needles and she launched them into the guards. One. Two. Three. Shayna didn’t miss. Three explosions of ash. Three redeceased vampires.
We slipped in through the back door, moving cautiously. Candles dimly lit a large kitchen right out of the Dark Ages. Hank motioned us forward, down a long stone corridor. I listened for any signs of movement, breathing—anything, but all was quiet.
We reached the end of the passageway and spread out along a vast foyer. Tapestries covered the walls, and a huge gas chandelier shone light against the carefully polished and heavy Elizabethan-period furniture. Nothing big and green attacked, and no dead bodies littered the floor. There was only quiet. And in a way that scared me more.
Taran threw her hands in the air. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered. “Where the hell is that psycho Zhahara?”
And that’s when the “psycho” decided to show.
A roar, deep and throaty at first, then high-pitched and squealing, shattered the stained-glass windows, forcing me to change and emerge as my beast.
I lifted my head toward the escalating pounding and amplified cries, and moved to stand in front of my sisters. One of the vamps yanked a battle-ax off the wall and shoved it into Shayna’s free hand. If Shayna hadn’t thought she needed it, another toe-curling bellow reassured her the more weapons, the merrier.
The pounding grew louder.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Slurp.
Slurp?
Taran’s hands fired bright with blue and white flames. “Oh, shit.”
Thump. Thump. Gurgle.
A growl rumbled my chest, the urge to attack growing.
Misha’s eyes turned into that tumultuous gunmetal gray right before the first funnel of a tornado takes shape. “You belong to the House of Aleksandr,” he hissed in a voice I no longer recognized. “You will show no fear, feel no pain, know only triumph.”
“Know only triumph,” his family repeated.
Thump.
Then silence. Only silence.
Before the dungeon door aviated off its hinges.
A leg extended out, long and thick as a log yet as elegant as a homecoming queen’s. Zhahara’s new and scary ten-foot frame stepped out smoothly, sucking a man’s neck like a mango while three other limp and very dead humans hung tucked beneath her arm. Zhahara’s smooth mocha skin and beautiful features had vanished, replaced by a contorted bat face and pig ears. Green blood coursed beneath her densely muscled skin as she stood na**d before us. In her defense, not even a set of curtains could have enshrouded her massive form. But Lord, I’d wished her thirst had allowed her time to throw something on. Every section of hair on her body lay in thick, matted clumps. Every section.
Taran gasped. “Girlfriend needs a wax.”
Zhahara blinked her black, beady eyes my way, tilting her head in curiosity. She tossed the mummified form she’d been working on over her shoulder and drew another to her mouth. We jerked at the sickening crunch her fangs made when they bit through her victim’s neck. She suckled patiently while she pondered her “there’s a tigress in my living room” dilemma.
She paused, mid–human drainage, and her nostrils flared. She’d noticed Misha. And that’s when her royal pissed-off-ness returned. She dropped her pile of people. They fell in a cluster, their heads lolling against their backs as Zhahara narrowed her soulless eyes at him. She screamed.
And we attacked.
Thunder hammered, rattling the castle as Taran’s fire sent Zhahara soaring down the hall. Taran’s power held strong—too strong; her body shook, and she screamed from the conduit of heat she pummeled into Zhahara. And still it wasn’t enough.
Zhahara’s limbs parachuted out like an X; she dug the nails of her hands and feet into the stone walls until they halted her descent. The vampires rushed her, giving Shayna mere moments to drag Taran’s failing body away from the fight.
Zhahara squashed a vamp’s head between her hands and swatted the others off like insects. They fell in a heap with a hard smash. The vampire who landed at her feet screamed when Zhahara’s foot crunched through her chest and into her heart.
My sisters muffled their cries. The fall of Misha’s family took seconds—so did my reaction time. My fangs found her neck; my claws dug into her back, a mere breath behind Misha’s vicious onslaught.
We rolled on the floor, crashing and demolishing furniture, overturning statues lining the wall, striving to get the upper hand, but managing only to keep from dying. Zhahara beat her boulder-size fists into my back until my muscles screamed in agony and my bones snapped.
I drew in an agonizing breath and shifted Zhahara down to her waist, her form too large for my declining strength. My claws scratched the stone in my attempt to scramble away. Zhahara’s thick fingers clasped my ankle, shattering it with a single squeeze, while her other hand drummed Misha against the floor.
Shayna appeared, wielding her battle-ax and driving it into the wrist that held me. In a furious holler, Zhahara hit Shayna with Misha’s body, sending her screaming into Taran.
Misha’s eyes shot open. He whipped around while Zhahara continued her vise grip to his thigh and attacked—peeling her burned, distorted face off in chunks. My back claws pushed into her neck, twisting and cutting through the putrid flesh, while my front claws dug into the floor as I tried to break away. Misha stripped her face down to bone, spilling the green blood like foaming sewer water. But it took more than that to kill a creature sick with hunger.
Zhahara twisted my leg, separating my femur from the socket, and hurled me toward the sweeping staircase.
A rush of warm fluid filled my mouth. I spit out the bright red mess and wheezed. A long piece of railing protruded through my chest. Below me, Misha staggered to his feet, barely keeping his balance. His head flopped against his back and blood spilled from his mutilated leg. Taran and Shayna lay near the doorway to the hall. Their breath rose and fell slowly in sync as frustrated tears streaked their bloodied faces.
Clumps of gray ash scattered from the relentless wind sweeping in through the destroyed windows while the rolling thunder continued to hammer. Out of Misha’s family, only four remained. They struggled like babies, using the walls and furniture to help them stand, frantic to help their master.
Zhahara’s fists busted the pavers, despite her missing face, despite her dangling wrist, despite my gashes to her neck sputtering her blood. She was almost free. I knew it and so did Misha.
Misha stumbled as he rose and snapped his own neck back into place. He met my eyes. “Forgive me,” he whispered, then marched forward to meet his fate.
I wanted to help Misha. I wanted to help all of us. And yet I couldn’t even help myself. My body screamed at the unfairness. But then I heard it: the rumbling sound of a runaway train, hurtling toward the castle as it gathered momentum.
I smiled on the inside.
Shit happened.
But so did magic.
Giant headlights illuminated the foyer as a deep horn blasted and the earth shook. The vampires launched themselves to shield my sisters. Misha leaped on top of me, covering my head with his body as the blaring force sideswiped the entry and jolted the entire castle. Chunks of granite and stone battered my hide. Metal twisted, glass shattered, and a little voice screamed with growing strain. Above us, the gas chandelier erupted into a fireball and the walls and ceiling cracked and crumbled.
It wasn’t until the last shudder ceased that Misha slid off my stunned form.
A Greyhound bus rested in a tilt over what used to be the foyer. Part of the castle’s second story hovered over its roof like an awning, spilling bricks in loud clangs against the warped metal. The castle’s entire front facade had been demolished into nothing more than a pile of rubble, powder, and broken glass.
