Ignoring Daphne’s directive, I scuttle along the damaged compact as she advances on our attacker, putting myself on the safer side of the experienced vampire killer. And as she spins the blade with clearly practiced hands, carving loops out of the snowy air, I have to admit that she looks every inch the warrior she claims to be.

The ninja rights himself, rocking onto his haunches, evaluating his opponent; and then he leaps, springing forward, swiping his katana at Daphne in a deadly arc. She parries the blow with a violent clash of metal, dancing back a step as the man’s feet touch the ground, and then their battle truly begins.

They move so fast I can’t keep up. The swords blaze under the streetlamps, and their bodies whirl, counter, and collide as the twin blades meet again and again. Twice, Daphne manages a surprise attack—once a kick to the man’s knee while deflecting a blow, and then a strike to his midsection as she dodges a forward thrust. But the masked man repays the favor, an unexpected swing ripping through the front of her coat. When she stumbles back, the fabric gapes open, the cut so deep the skin of her stomach is visible.

She doesn’t even slow down. They charge back together with two-handed grips, the clanging blows getting louder. I can practically feel the car alarm in my back teeth, and I finally remember my cell phone, wondering if I should call the police. Despite being trained to expect trouble with vampires, the authorities have been historically shitty at fighting them—fangs beat guns every time.

Reeling from another kick to the chest, the ninja regroups and charges, his katana slashing the air. He leaps, kicking off the side of the SUV to vault even higher, and Daphne arches back, dodging the blade as she simultaneously lashes out with her own—piercing the stiff neoprene of the man’s bodysuit just as he launches into a sideways flip.

The motion wrenches the blade from Daphne’s hand, and when the man hits the ground, so does her sword. Metal rings as the katana spins out of sight beneath the SUV, and the ninja staggers back, looking down at the hole my math tutor sliced open over his right flank. Six inches of pale skin are exposed, along with a bloody but unfortunately shallow flesh wound, and he gazes up at her—his grip tightening on his sword.

“Auggie,” Daphne begins, backing away from the man, “you really need to run.”