“New plan,” said Logan. “You two will hole up in the bathroom until we can clear a path.”
There were no windows in her hall bathroom—no way for the monsters to get in except for the door. It sounded like a good idea to her. Helen nodded, slung her purse strap over her neck, and picked up a fire extinguisher.
As they passed by the front door, one of the monsters lunged into it. The thin metal sheath around the insulating core buckled, leaving a lump in the door about waist high. Helen yelped and scrambled up the stairs, nearly running into Thomas, who was holding off one of the beasts.
Three furry bodies lay crumpled on her carpet, leaking black blood. A fourth monster leapt for Thomas’s throat and he sliced at it with his heavy blade. He scored a thin line along its chest, but the thing kept coming. Drake had killed another two monsters in the kitchen and a third one scrambled over the pile of his fallen brothers in order to swipe a claw at Drake’s face.
Helen’s throat closed down on a scream and her body went tight. Please, God, don’t let him get hurt.
Drake dodged the strike, his sword flashed, and the monster’s severed paw hit the kitchen wall, bouncing off. Oily blood sprayed across Helen’s oak cabinets and it was all she could do not to vomit. She would never be able to cook in this kitchen again. Hell, she’d never be able to walk into this house again. Assuming she was able to get out of it alive.
The monster Drake had maimed let out a scream that sounded almost human. Chills raced over her limbs and her body froze in place. Which was probably for the best because at that moment Thomas took a long step back. He ducked below a furry body, shoved his sword into its belly, and stood up, hurling it over her head and down the hall with a massive burst of strength. He came only inches from knocking her over.
The monster lay sprawled in the hall, unmoving, soaking the carpet with its blood and . . . something else leaking out of its wounded abdomen.
Now all five of them were gathered at the top of the stairs where the hall, living room, and kitchen all met. There were monsters pounding at the front door, nearly through it, and more were climbing in the broken back door and front window, crawling over the dead bodies.
“We need an exit,” said Logan in a calm, even tone.
“Working on it,” said Thomas.
Drake kept his eyes on the approaching monster who was struggling to climb over the slippery bodies of the dead. “We’ve got maybe two minutes until the Handlers show up. Then things are going to get ugly.”
Get ugly? She didn’t know what he was looking at, but from where she was standing, surrounded by dead monsters leaking black blood all over her carpet and kitchen, she’d never seen anything uglier. She didn’t even want to think about something uglier.
She felt panic start to set in now that she wasn’t moving, and she had to fight it down with a force of will. She couldn’t afford to lose it until she got Miss Mabel away safely.
“Van’s in front,” said Logan. “We won’t make it out on foot with humans along.”
“Thomas?” asked Drake.
“I’m on it,” replied Thomas.
“How long do you need?” asked Drake.
Helen had no idea what they were talking about, but she didn’t stop them to ask questions. The metal sheet on the inside of the front door was ripping open a little more with every thud. She could see a wide set of furry jaws snapping at her through the crack. No way was she going to distract them from making sure those shark teeth didn’t get to her and Miss Mabel.
Thomas stepped forward to meet the monster that had just made it over the pile, hissing and pawing at the furry bodies. “Sixty seconds,” was the answer to Drake’s question.
“You got them.” With that, Drake and Thomas both whirled into action, their powerful bodies making quick work of the remaining monsters. She’d never seen anything so beautiful, so deadly, as the two of them wielding their swords.
With one hand, Drake lifted Helen’s kitchen table over the pile of dead bodies and used it to cover the hole where the back door used to be. He braced his left hand against it, holding it in place while he kept his sword in his right hand, ready to strike. He looked at Helen and gave her a reassuring smile and a wink. “Follow Logan out. He’ll get you to the van.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“You’re not. I’ll be right behind you. Now go!”
Helen felt a tug on her shirt—Miss Mabel’s fingers around the strap of her tank top again—and followed along behind Logan. Thomas had gone berserk and was slashing through monster after monster as if he were cutting down wheat. As soon as one came scrambling through the window, he sliced it open or sent it flying. Sweat darkened his hair and made his shirt cling to his back.
Logan led her over the dead bodies and she tried not to think about the feel of the fur on her bare leg or the squish of blood under her feet. Thomas was through the front window and Helen briefly wondered whether her neighbors were watching this whole show. Not that she cared. As long as they all got out of this alive, she’d figure out something to tell them. Attack by wild dogs, maybe. She wasn’t going to continue to live here, anyway. Not after tonight. Let the neighbors think what they want.
Logan cleared the remaining shards of glass away from the window frame with his booted foot and hopped down. She wasn’t sure how Thomas did it, but he managed to keep his sword between them and every monster that came after them. And there were a lot. She didn’t stop to count, but Thomas had already killed a bunch and there were at least four more coming for them. They’d abandoned the idea of getting in the front door as soon as they’d seen Thomas jump out into the front yard. For a big guy, he was fast and he used that bulk to push forward, clearing them a path to the van sitting in her driveway.
Miss Mabel had lost her hold on Helen’s shirt somewhere along the way and she and Logan were a few feet in front of her. Helen jumped out of the window and looked over her shoulder, hoping to see Drake right behind her. Instead, she saw his body fly out of the kitchen, followed closely by her kitchen table. He hit the railing at the top of the stairs, nearly spilling over it. His body crumpled to the floor and the kitchen table slammed into him, pinning him there. Then nothing moved. He didn’t get up.
Frantic, Helen lifted herself back up into the window, feeling a bit of glass slice into her palms, and scrambled over the bodies to reach him. He was big, but she could drag him out. It was only a few feet. She could do it.
Helen shoved the table off him and he let out a groan. His eyes fluttered open and he shook his head as if to clear it. It only took a couple of seconds for him to become coherent again, and when he did, he looked pissed.
He opened his mouth to say something to her, but then his gaze slid past her and Helen turned her head to see what he was looking at.
It was tall, easily seven feet tall. It walked upright like a human, but it wasn’t even close to being human. The thing’s head was too large, missing a nose and lips to cover the openings in its skull. Pointed teeth gleamed and dripped saliva. Its legs bent the wrong way. Its skin was snow white, completely hairless, and for clothing, it wore a cloak made out of the rust-colored fur of the monsters. In one hand it held a whip made from fine chain links and in the other it held a red-hot metal rod three feet long. Little wisps of flames danced up from the tip of the rod.
Fire. Oh God, no.
She felt her muscles lock up with terror. The thing stepped forward on oddly jointed legs, appearing to be in no hurry.
Drake shifted his grip on his sword and pushed himself to his knees. She heard him stifle a gasp of pain and wanted to reach out to him, but couldn’t. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.
The thing cracked the whip, hitting the railing next to Drake’s shoulder. The wood burst into flames and even from three feet away, Helen could still feel the deadly heat. The railing needed no time to catch fire; it just went up in a blaze, spreading faster than normal fire ever could. But then, this was not normal.
Drake was still trying to gain his feet. The thigh of his jeans was soaked with blood and she could see a sharp spike of bone sticking partially through the tough fabric. His leg was badly broken. There was no way he was going to be able to stand on it, much less fight.
She wanted to tell him that, but her throat was closed tight—too tight to speak, too tight to breathe.
The thing lifted the glowing rod and pointed it toward Helen.
“No!” shouted Drake. Somewhere, he found the strength to jump to his feet and lunge at the thing. His sword sliced high, taking off the arm that held the rod.
Fire erupted from the place where its arm used to be. Drake threw his body over hers, knocking her to the ground beneath him.
Helen felt a blast of heat and sound, but could see nothing. Her face was buried in the greasy fur of one of the dead monsters and the heavy animal stench of it made her sick. She could feel the cold squish of blood under her knees and Drake’s heavy weight atop her.
Drake’s body stiffened and he let out a deep groan of pain that got louder and louder until it turned into a scream. Then he fell silent and limp atop her.
The heat abated and Drake’s weight disappeared. Helen pushed herself up to scramble to her feet. All she wanted was to shove her shoulder under Drake’s and help him get out of here, broken leg or not.
But it was too late.
Logan had been the one who picked him up off her, and now she could see the burns running down the right side of Drake’s body. His hair and some of his clothes had been burned away, revealing blistered flesh beneath. Some beyond blistered to blackened.
Logan’s too-pretty face became a mask of grief and pain, and Helen knew then that even if Drake was alive, he wouldn’t be for long.
Drake had used his body to shield her from that fire and now he was going to die.
Logan had to get Helen out of here before another Handler showed up or before the fire near the stairway started burning out of control. Drake had killed the Handler, though Logan had no idea how he’d gotten close enough to manage that. Handlers were frail, but they rarely got closer than they needed to strike out with their whip. That was usually close enough for them to kill something. Even if it wasn’t, the fire their bodies bled when injured burned hot enough and fast enough to take down anything unlucky enough to be in its path.
Thomas made sure the Handler was dead while Logan pulled Drake off Helen. He didn’t like leaving Miss Mabel in the van unprotected, but Helen was the one who was important here. He had to figure out how she’d been able to absorb Drake’s power. It could be the key to stopping the slow death of all the Sentinel races. The key to winning the Synestryn war.
Logan took in Drake’s injuries in a sweeping glance. The broken leg and ribs were no problem, but the burns . . . Drake wasn’t going to make it, not even if Logan put every ounce of his dwindling reserves into healing the Theronai. He just didn’t have the strength. He’d fed tonight, but the bloodline had been weak and it hadn’t even managed to ease his gnawing hunger, much less fuel his magic. Walking Helen’s and Drake’s memories had taken enough out of him that it was as if he hadn’t fed at all.