For a moment, Kit just stared. This close, the invisible creature in front of him wasn't, with a head and body that the shifting light was playing over, like a mannequin made out of glass. But it wasn't a mannequin; it was that damned dhampir.
It was that damned dhampir, he thought again, hope dawning.
And then she belted him.
It was enough to send him staggering backwards, into the little room where he and his nemesis had been waiting out of sight, so that nothing would give them away. And where a massive battle had been waged internally for more than half an hour. Waged and lost, because try as he might, he couldn't wrest back control.
Until her fist hit his jaw, almost shattering it. She followed him to the floor, continuing the abuse because the necromancer obviously had less experience with combat than with black magic. And Kit wasn't helping him, wasn't even when the bitch broke his arm.
Because, suddenly, he could move.
Him, not his nemesis. It only lasted for a few seconds, while the shock of her assault reverberated through him. But it was enough.
Liam! He screamed mentally.
Sir? Liam's always calm voice answered immediately. How may I --
The voice cut off mid-sentence, as a metaphysical fist tightened around Kit's neck. And as two physical ones latched onto his throat, trying to throttle him. Or maybe trying to pop his head off like a cork from a champagne bottle, because that's what it felt like.
And judging by the dhampir's enthusiasm, she just might have succeeded.
But the damned bokor had recovered. And while he didn't have Kit's knowledge, he did have his strength. Which he used to throw the woman off, violently enough to send her stumbling back into the corridor. Where she grabbed the carpet runner and jerked, at the same moment that his body tried to follow up on the advantage, sending him sprawling.
And then rolling down the hallway, wrapped up like a sausage in a bun -- or a vamp in a carpet -- faster than the time it took to think the words.
Ha, he thought vaguely.
Good one.
But not good enough. She came at him with a stake, lightning fast, the invisible suit making the damned thing look like it was levitating. And all right, he had a new nightmare now, Kit thought, right before his fist punched through layers of carpet and grabbed her.
The bokor had been aiming for her neck, but Kit managed to throw him slightly off, resulting in an Alien-like grab to the face. Predictably, she sank her fangs into his flesh, practically separating the ball of his thumb from everything else, and forced the release. But she couldn't capitalize on it before the bokor backhanded her with every ounce of force Kit had.
She landed over by the stairs, on top of some Rasta who hadn't gotten out of the way fast enough, and didn't immediately get back up again.
Come on, Kit thought urgently, as the bokor fought with the wooly embrace. You're better than that! Didn't you almost roast me alive? Didn't you break my arm, something no man has managed to do since my Change? Didn't you throw me into a lake of giant reptiles? Come on, get up!
And she was obviously trying. But she was also obviously hurt, and it must have been bad. Because she was floundering around like a drunk when she had to know he was coming for her, was coming for her now.
And he would have. But the moment he tore free of the confining carpet, the music from downstairs was drowned out by a flourish of trumpets, like something out of a medieval movie. But it wasn't. It was that theatrical bitch Alejandro, who insisted on acting like a king instead of a consul.
And who, right now, probably had a queen alongside him.
The bokor sent Kit careening through the nearest door, into a room with a view, to confirm it. And sure enough, a horse drawn carriage had just pulled up in front of the building, the neon glow from rows of club signs reflecting in its shiny black surface. And off of the top of the wet umbrella a footman was holding out, to keep the emerging consul dry.
Who then turned with exaggerated, old world courtesy, to help his lady descend.
No, not his lady, Kit seethed. My lady. And not just his consul, but his master, the one who had Changed him, the one who had elevated him far beyond his humble beginnings, the one it was his duty to defend above all others.
Like it had once been his duty to Jane.
The rage hit him suddenly, an all-consuming tide of white hot fury. It surprised the bokor, who apparently wasn't used to controlling through that kind of emotion. Or feeling it, judging by his mental yelp.
Welcome to my world, Kit thought viciously, and screamed a warning: To the queen!
And was heard.
Below him, the dark haired beauty in a crimson evening dress and rubies jerked her head up, looking straight at him. And two dozen lights in his mental landscape, every Child he had in the area, suddenly flared brilliantly, like novas in the night sky. Because they'd heard him, too.
Unfortunately, they also heard something else.
There's a problem. Don't let anyone through but me. The command flashed across his mind -- and outward to the family -- an instant before the connection shut down hard.
No, Kit thought, in disbelief. No!
Yes, the bokor told him nastily, jerking him away from the window. I can't make a connection for you, but I can damned well control one if you leave it open. Now, let's go see your lady, shall we? After all, she's expecting you.
Chapter Thirteen