“You filthy brat,” he snarls thickly, froth gathering at the corners of his horrible corkscrew mouth. “You miserable little mongrel shit! I spent one hundred years preparing the way for a true god to rise, and you have destroyed everything!” His eyes are so bright they hurt to look at, and his face is disfigured with pure hatred. “Can you even comprehend what you have done? I was to be his anointed—I was to bear a title in Azazel’s court, and sit at his right hand! You robbed me of my destiny, and now I shall introduce you to the hell you deserve!”

His claws sink deeper into my flank, and blinding pain shoots through me, a flurry of razor-edged stars. Pressure mounts in my ears, my lungs throb, and I shut my eyes—this agony will only get worse. The gruesome sound of tearing flesh and snapping bone makes my stomach convulse … and then Rasputin’s grip abruptly loosens, and I drop like a stone to the fractured concrete. Air sweeps down my bruised throat, and I choke on it, coughing violently as I blink and look up.

Rasputin still towers above me, eyes wide and glazed, jaw hanging open—and in the center of his chest gapes a dark, ragged hole, spilling old blood. Staggering to one side, the vampire pivots on unsteady feet—to reveal Viviane Duclos. Once again, she wears the face of Daphne Banks—the blond hair and apple cheeks, the sly glint—and she gives the cleric a smile. In her upraised hand, she holds the ugly black mass of his heart. “Pardon me, sir, but were you looking for this?”

Rasputin stares, horror-struck, his fingers trembling as he reaches. “No!”

But he’s too late. With her other hand, she produces that stake of hers—and plunges it straight through the organ in her slimy grip.

Rasputin lurches violently, stumbling to his knees as his legs desiccate instantly beneath him and the joints fail. His hair and beard blanch and grow, his shoulders separating and his jaw swinging loose, all his tendons shriveling. He pitches forward, and by the time he hits the ground, he’s nothing but bones, his remains scattering between us.

Viviane casts aside the leathery scrap that’s left of her enemy’s heart, brushing off her hands, and then peers down at me. My heart is still racing. She just saved my life—again—but I don’t know where we stand. Centuries of her own plans were just foiled as well, and I’m still the one to blame. When she snaps out her fangs, I flinch and hold my breath, stifling a whimper—but then she sinks her teeth deep into her own wrist.