the door again with another crunch, and a high crazed laugh burst out of me. Because the force was

building again—

—and Gran’s owl streaked down the hall, talons outstretched. There was no missing this time either.

The bird claws bit deep, black blood exploded, and the female let out a scream so terrible it shook

the hall and blew my hair back on a hot stinking draft. I slid farther along the wall as Ash struggled

free of the broken body of the last male. He collapsed, hauled himself up again on slippery paws.

My hands slid in hot, greasy vampire blood. I choked again, crab-pedaling back along the wall, my

legs pistoning wildly.

The female sucker lurched forward as Gran’s owl flapped its wings, each beat muffled and almost

touching her hair. The claws were still tangled in her face, and the force streaming through me

crested again as the talons bit deeper.

Light burst down the hall. A red streak arrowed past Ash, who sagged aside onto my feet. I barely

saw the small doglike creature with a high-held rufous brush of a black-tipped tail as it leapt on the

female, biting and clawing. She screamed again, but it was the miserable sound of an animal in a

trap.

I grabbed at Ash’s pelt. He was bleeding badly, red fluid staining the lake of rotting black we both

sat simmering in. The bandage Dibs had wrapped so carefully around my wrist flopped loose,

squelching and steaming.

The light was too bright. Someone had flicked a switch and the incandescents overhead were blazing. I wondered, in one of those split-second thoughts that happen when things go crazy, what they

paid each year for lightbulbs in this place.

He hurtled down the hall, deadly silent, and I pulled harder, trying to get Ash closer to me.

Christophe, his hair slick and dark and the aspect shining on him like a halo, tore the female vampire’s throat out. Black blood gushed. Her body slumped aside and he jabbed down, the polished

wooden stake in his bleeding hands whistling as it clove the air to bury itself with a sick meaty

thump in her chest.

He turned on one booted heel. His thin black V-neck sweater was torn, a stripe of red blood painted

one perfect, high-arched cheek-bone, and his eyes blazed unholy blue. His fangs were out, his entire

face a mask of effort and ferocity. His jeans were ripped all over, and he was splashed up to the

thighs with black blood.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy and so terrified at the same time. “Ch-Ch-Chr—” I stuttered

over his name. Gran’s owl had vanished, and the little red animal—it was no bigger than a cat—

rubbed against Christophe’s shin, its narrow black nose raised inquisitively. I flinched and realized

what it was.

A fox. Christophe’s aspect in animal form.