Turns out, not only was he strong as a bull, he could fight. He caught my charge and with both hands and a pivot of his hips sent me flying again. I collided with a line of Upierczi and we all went down. The impact tore a cry of pain from me; they merely grunted. They were laughing as we hit the ground and cold fingers were suddenly plucking at me.

“No!” bellowed Grigor. “Leave him be. This one is mine.”

Disappointment flickered on their faces, but that was quickly supplanted by evil smiles. They shoved me to my feet and one of them even steadied me and slapped dust from my clothes. He gave me a friendly grin and a wicked wink.

“Thanks,” I said, then I flicked my rapid-release folding knife from my pocket and whipped the blade across his throat. It wasn’t my best cut, not even that deep, but the whole knife had been soaked in garlic oil. Mr. Friendly staggered back, clutching his throat while he gurgled a wet scream.

Everybody watched him fall, watched the blood geyser from his throat and then fade to a trickle. Then every set of red eyes shifted to stare at me.

I moved away from them and dropped into a fighting crouch, blade ready for Grigor.

“Garlic,” he observed. “Clever trick.”

“Come over here and let me show you how it works.”

We all had a good laugh over that.

The other Upierczi began circling me again, laughing, taunting me, pretending to lunge at me. Some—friends of the dead, I guessed—told me how I would die and what I would feel. Not really necessary—Grigor was about to show me firsthand.

He lunged in and swatted at my knife. I evaded but only just. He was wary of the garlic on the blade and his hesitancy allowed me some seconds of breathing room. I pressed that advantage, leaping at him, slashing and hacking with a dozen overlapping cuts. But all I really cut was air.

Then he faked high and came in low and wickedly fast. He punched the bicep of my knife arm and the whole arm went dead. The knife clattered to the floor. Grigor rose from his crouch and hit me again in the chest. Same place. Same effect.

I flew backward into the stack of packing crates, splintering the side of one that was the size of a refrigerator.

In the movies, these crates fly apart like they’re made of balsa wood. In the real world they become a network of sharp splinters and jagged edges that gouge into you, tear your skin and your clothing, and pin you like a butterfly on a display board. I was stuck fast, my shoulder caught as surely as if an alligator had its jaws clamped around it.

I couldn’t free myself. Couldn’t escape.

Smiling, Grigor stalked toward me as all around us the vampires howled in the darkness.