“Loyalty doesn’t strike me as one of your better qualities.”

“Maybe not. But I’ve others.” The blade was already in the air before I registered the flick of his hand. Ryan pivoted to dodge the attack, but the dagger’s gleaming edge caught his upper arm, painting a stripe of red across his sleeve.

The fight was on.

“I’ll take him,” I said to Ryan, and let him move toward the little guy.

I launched forward and sliced sideways, but the man was sprier than he looked. He jumped out of the way, stuck out a foot to trip me as I moved forward. I anticipated, jumped, and landed closer to the elevator.

“You’re a pretty little thing,” he said.

“I’m not little,” I promised, swinging a half circle with the sword extended, hoping to throw him off balance if I couldn’t bring him down. He stumbled backward out of the way, barely missing the edge of a console table that would have put him on his ass.

My bad luck there.

He pulled another gleaming dagger from the interior of his jacket, switched it from hand to hand.

“Tell me why a girl with your looks, your fine ass, is playing with a sword?”

He meant to piss me off, and it worked. My eyes silvered, but I’d been in battle before, knew better than to let this dirtbag throw me off.

I ignored the pop of bullets behind me, a groan I thought came from Ethan, tried to slow panic and keep my focus.

I lowered my sword arm, put my other hand on my hip, and grinned at him. “I don’t need to play with a sword. I know how to use one.”

His smile was lascivious, and aimed at my chest. So he didn’t see me kick up the bottom of my katana, launch it into a spin. But he saw the blade catch light, glinting once, then twice, as it spun like a baton. His hand moved, the dagger piercing forward, but I was already gone.

I snapped the handle out of the air, edged to his right, the katana trailing me, and shifted my hands forward against his bulk. The blade caught, slicing him across the chest. He screamed out a curse, stumbled forward, hit the opposite wall with braced arms.

As I finished the rotation, he roared with anger, turned back with his dagger gleaming, his other arm pressed against the bleeding stripe across his chest. He lunged clumsily, but he still had plenty of strength. I whipped aside to dodge the dagger, but it caught the bottom edge of my jacket before digging into the wall, pinning me against it like a scientific specimen.

He’d lost his weapon, but he still had two ham-sized fists. I jerked free with a tear of leather, but the delay took precious seconds. His fist connected with my stomach, sending a wave of nausea through my belly even as the blow pushed the air from my lungs.

I hit the stone floor on my knees, the queasiness matched only by the fury that lashed through me.

I huffed quick breaths through clenched teeth, trying not to hurl, pushed myself to my feet again, and leveled him with the fiercest stare I could manage. “You. Punched. Me.” Every word took effort.

He smiled. “And I’ll do it again, bitch, if you don’t step aside.”

He’d punched me . . . and called me a bitch.

Blood roared through my ears, and everything else faded—the sounds of his labored breathing, the fight in the other room. My vision seemed to dim to the cone where he stood in front of me, grinning maniacally and scenting the air with my fury.

I imagined myself a sword-bearing dervish—I apparently got creative while fighting in a pain-induced frenzy—lifted my sword, and dove into battle.

I moved in with a slice from right to left, and he used the dagger to block it, then rotated his arm, using the momentum against me to push me back. But I didn’t stop. I came in again, sliced upward from the left. He dodged, then kicked out with his right leg, making contact with my knee. The impact made my body shudder, pain radiating like forks of lightning, but I stayed on my feet. He wasn’t the only one who could fight dirty.

I feinted to the left, reaching for my knee like he’d done serious damage. His ugly smile bloomed; he thought he’d won. But I kicked upward with my good leg, made direct contact with his crotch, and sent him moaning to the floor on his knees.

“Bitch,” he muttered again, spittle flying, but he wasn’t down, and he wasn’t done. He flipped his dagger and held it backward, the blade aligned with his forearm, then flipped it out with a motion that just nicked the edge of my thigh as I jumped backward to avoid it. I bumped that damned console table, sent a lamp to the floor with a crash of ceramic and glass.

He pulled his bulk to his feet again, lumbered forward, murder in his eyes.

“Bitch,” he said one more time, the word thick in his mouth, as if it was an incantation, a gleam in his eyes as if saying the word gave him power.

My power wasn’t his to take.

He swiped left, then right. I moved backward, putting space between us, his body between me and the rest of the building. I bumped up against the elevator wall, bluffed surprise, let my katana clank to the ground.

“You aren’t going anywhere,” he said.

He was right. I wasn’t.

He roared, lunged, his body set for a frontal attack, so focused that he didn’t see me kick up the katana and thrust it in front of me.

But he was already moving, and skin and flesh were hardly a barrier to honed steel. He was skewered, the handle of the katana protruding just below his breastbone.

Eyes wide with shock, he looked down, took in the handle sticking out of his gut, then stumbled backward, wrenching the handle—now slippery with blood—from my grip.

“You weren’t playing,” he murmured, before his eyes went dull. He fell backward, hitting the floor with a thud.

I took a shuddering breath, wiping sweat from my eyes. I’d killed before, and would again. But it didn’t get easier, no matter that the death saved lives, including my own.

A crash from the living room pulled me from my shock. I moved forward, pulling out my katana, cleaned it of gore. There were many things required of a vampire warrior; some of them were more disturbing than others.

“Ethan?” I called out.

“I’m good.”

I said a silent prayer of thanks, then glanced around, checked the others. The little guy was on the floor in the foyer. Ryan lay on the floor in front of the kitchenette.

I ran forward. He lay on his back, a nasty wound across his left arm, another across his left leg, and a lot of blood. The scent of it interested my vampire sensibilities, but I ignored the surge of interest and leaned down.

“Ryan.” I tapped his cheeks. “Ryan.”

His eyes fluttered open, focused. “I’m okay.” But he winced with the pain.

Ethan walked toward us, wiping the blood from his sword. There was blood on his right thigh.

“You’re hit?” I asked.

“Glanced me.”

I nodded. “Ryan’s injured. You got the little guy?”

“And his friend. Cord’s got Darius. You got the big guy?”

“I did. Had some unflattering things to say.”

Ethan adjusted his earpiece. “Lucas, we’re done here, and it’s gonna be dirty.”

“Exit’s prepared, van is ready to go. Cleanup crew en route.”

I hadn’t even thought about a cleanup crew, about the necessity of having someone take care of the mess we’d left. I was glad he had.

“Fine,” he said, glanced at Ryan. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I rose to grab a blanket from the back of a nearby love seat, preparing to drape it across Ryan’s body. I wasn’t sure if vampires could go into shock, but I didn’t feel like it was time to find out.

I saw the instant widening of his eyes, the flare of his irises.

“Behind you,” Ryan cried out, and I snapped my head to look.

The shorter man, blood streaming across his face and his abdomen, had lifted his arm . . . and his gun was pointed at Ethan.

Light and smoke emerged from the barrel.

I didn’t stop to think or plan or evaluate risk. I moved.

I dove in front of Ethan, covering his body with mine as the explosion of sound filled the air. There was only pain, bright and searing, until I hit the ground.

The world spun . . . and went dark.

Chapter Ten

THE RULES OF VAMPIRELAND

I blinked once, then again, before the world cleared. I stared up at a pale ceiling with intricate molding around the edges. I was home.

“She’s awake,” said a woman’s voice beside me.

Fingers clasped my wrist, felt for the pulse I knew was strong. I could feel it throbbing in my head like I was sitting inside a bass drum.

I glanced beside me, recognized the décor of our apartments. I lay on the bed. A woman crouched beside me, her dark skin set off by brilliant fuchsia scrubs. She was Delia, the House’s doctor.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You took one in the line of duty, Sentinel. Shot in the shoulder.”

Mortification replaced confusion. “I didn’t pass out, did I?”

Delia smiled. “No. But your head took a good bounce on the floor when you went down.”

“We’ve actually found something harder than our Sentinel’s head. You’ve been out since last night.”

I glanced at my side, found Ethan behind Delia, his expression pinched with concern. Luc stood behind them, watching cautiously.

“Last night? I missed an entire day? What time is it?”

“A day and part of an evening again,” Ethan said. “It’s midnight.”

I began to sit up, but Delia put a hand on my arm. “Slowly,” she said. “Give it a moment. Concussion, and you might be dizzy for a bit, but you’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

Slowly, I sat up, got my bearings. The room stopped spinning after a moment, and the dull buzz began to fade away.

Delia checked my heartbeat and my temperature. She pushed back the sleeve of my shirt, checked the dressing there, and, with a smile, stripped it away.

“And you’re healed. The benefits of vampire genetics,” she said with a smile. “But you do have a very small scar.”

I bent my shoulder forward to see, found a pale, star-shaped mark no bigger than a dime.

“It was a hollow-point bullet. The shard popped right out as you were healing, but they do tend to leave scars on vampires.”

I’d be in good company there. Ethan still bore the small pucker of skin above his heart where he’d taken an aspen stake for me. And since he stood healthy beside me, I said, “I can deal with a scar. I kinda like it, actually.”

“We’re glad you’re all right, Sentinel,” Luc said. “That was a damn brave thing you did.”

“Thanks,” I said, pressing gingerly at the back of my head, feeling the lump that had blossomed there. Hopefully vampire genetics would take care of that, too.

“And sorry about the damage. You missed a rule,” Luc said, and I nodded, already anticipating the joke.

“I forgot to double-tap the little guy,” I said.

“You forgot to double-tap the little guy,” he agreed.

Delia glanced at her watch, rose. “I need to jet. I’ve got a shift in twenty. Merit should stay off her feet for a little while.”

“Noted, Delia. Thank you for taking a look.”

“Happy to help, as always, Liege.” She walked to the apartment doors, opened them, announced to the vampires who apparently stood there, waiting for news: “She’s awake. You can all go about your business now.”

There were hoots and catcalls that warmed my cheeks, but I didn’t mind the attention. I’d thrown my body in front of Ethan to protect him. I was proud of myself—not because I’d been brave, but because I hadn’t let fear stop me from moving.

Ethan sat down on the bed beside me.

“Is Ryan okay? Darius?”

Ethan stroked a hand along my calf, which soothed as if by magical osmosis. “Both are fine. Ryan and Cord returned to New York.” His face fell. “I’m sorry to say that Max didn’t make it. He was staked.”

I had the sudden, sharp memory of Ethan disappearing in front of my eyes. The sight of Malik, eyes swollen, grieving, carrying a bundle of amaranth at Ethan’s memorial service. His death had been erased by magic, but the memories still bore a terrible weight.

He reached out, squeezed my hand. “I’m here, Sentinel.”

I nodded.

“Max’s memorial will be tomorrow night at Cabot House. We’ve made a donation to the House’s charitable fund. And we did the same for Brett Jacobs—Arthur opened a scholarship fund at Columbia College and we made a generous donation.”

I exhaled. “Good. That’s good. Thank you, Ethan.”

“Of course.”

“And Darius?” I asked.

“Lakshmi arrived just before dawn to help him back to London. They left right after dusk.”

“Does she have any idea who planned this?”

Ethan’s gaze darkened. “She does not. She didn’t believe any current members of the GP were capable of it, but I think she’s still trying to accept what actually happened.”

“Several guards, seven million dollars, and a magical appliance, as you called it, capable of controlling a Master vampire. Who else has those kinds of resources?”

“And who else is brave enough to use them against the head of the GP?” I blew out a breath. “It doesn’t pay to be a member of the GP these days,” I said. I’d killed Celina. Ethan had killed Harold. Michael Donovan had nearly taken out Darius and Lakshmi, as had the unidentified vampire who had planted the obelisk and used it to control him. This wasn’t exactly the situation I wanted to drop Ethan into.