White-robed henchmen drop from two stories up and slam to the concrete with an echoing boom, one landing on either side of me. Their eyes burning, their claws trailing tendrils of smoke that drift in the moonlight, they hang back at a wary distance. My heart hammers my temples. I don’t know if I can take both of them—I don’t even know if I can still take them at all—but when one darts a glance in the direction Hope just ran, I know I’m going to find out.

With everything I’ve got, I fling my influence at him, whipping his blood into a frenzy. His muscles seize as the heat rises, his golden eyes going round; but a moment later, he slips from my grasp. His blood slows and settles, and I dig deeper, trying again … but nothing happens. I can’t get back in. Cold sweat limps down my spine, and another lurching sensation rocks me, stealing the breath from my lungs.

A muscle twitches in my hand, my fingers jumping, and I gape as it dances. I’m not the one making it move. Azazel is growing more defined by the second, his presence separating from mine like oil in water—and he’s starting to figure out how to make this body work. Horror turns my stomach, bile singeing my throat. It’s happening. All my dreams, all the moments I haven’t lived yet, rush at me with terminal speed. No matter how many plans I laid for this moment, I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.

The Ascension is beginning.

Finally, at long last, I’ve got no time left.

“Oh my.” The vampire I failed to kill splits his face in a monstrous, knife-toothed smile. “It looks like the vessel just might be full.”

“The hour is at hand.” The other intones his agreement.

The air crackles, and unpleasant sensations shiver through my body, more muscles twitching against my will. Desperately, gulping air, I sputter, “N-now. It’s happening now.”

“The Master will be pleased…” The vampire on my left giggles, a sound like a fork caught in a garbage disposal, and he spreads his arms to the heavens. My body jerks, my lungs burn, and hairs rise along my arms—and from high above us, another figure comes soaring through the windows and into the upper reaches of the warehouse. Embroidered robes flapping, his face carved in a maniacal grin, Rasputin has finally made his entrance.

36

He plunges with graceful precision, knees flexed, his clawed fingers trailing hellish, otherworldly smoke that shreds in the updraft. His minions exalt his glory, and I try to scramble backward—even as one of my hands lifts from the floor on its own, my head getting lighter. Rasputin’s eyes streak through the darkness, meteorites blazing their way to Earth.