I closed my eyes, did as he suggested, then reached, as I’d remotely reached for the life of the vampires earlier. There was a brief moment of blackness and disorientation; then I felt it—felt his fire and his life, his fury and his fear. But I didn’t reach for it—instead, I reached through him to the mother, and called to her.

She came. I grabbed her energy with two metaphysical fists and then projected outward, through me and into Rinaldo. The force of it was so strong, it tore him from my neck and threw him across the room. He didn’t immediately move, but he lived, even if his entire body was smoking.

I pushed myself onto my hands and knees, sucked in air as my head swam and blood rushed down my neck, then forced myself onto my feet and drew the gun.

“Die, you bastard,” I said, and pulled the trigger. And kept pulling, until the clip was empty and there was nothing left of his head. Then the gun slipped from my fingers, and I dropped to my knees.

Someone dropped beside me; then warm fingers grabbed mine. “Feed from me, phoenix. There is still one brother left.”

The witch, some part of me whispered. I licked my lip, and tried to ignore the siren call of her body’s heat. “It would be dangerous for me to even attempt that. I might kill you.”

“I’d be dead if not for you,” she said. “But even so, I trust that you will not. It is not within you to kill another that way.”

If only you knew.

“Do it,” she said. “Now.”

Em, please, Jackson said.

I closed my eyes, closed my fingers around hers, and fed. It flowed through me, a molten river that chased the ice from my veins and the weakness from my limbs. It would have been easy, so easy, to keep to the connection, to drain her completely, but her words seemed to echo through her brain; I forced my grip to open, and I released her hand.

Her whole body slumped. “Go,” was all she said.

Hit the bastard for me before you cinder him, Jackson said.

I became fire and swirled out of the building and back to the rooftop. I shifted shape again, then opened the door and ran down the stairs.

But Rinaldo’s twin wasn’t there.

I swore, ran down the rest of the stairs, and thrust the door open. A dozen men immediately swung around; I held up my hands, my gaze searching for, and then finding, Baker.

“Did you retrieve Rinaldo from the stairwell?”

“No, we did not,” Radcliffe said, stepping up beside Baker. “You were supposed to handle anyone attempting to escape via the stairwell.”