. . but it was like running up against an obsidian wall. She could feel nothing of Thierry in the contact, just smooth black hardness.
Forget about that, the cool wind voice said. And don't faint; you've got to stay conscious. Think about your room. You need wood; you need a weapon. Where...
The desk.
Even as she thought it, Thierry's grip on her was shifting. He was forcing her to turn so she faced away from him, still holding her in an iron grip with one arm. She had no idea what he was doing with the other arm until he spoke again.
"I have to give you back something for what I took."
And then the other arm was in front of Hannah, wrist pressing to her mouth. She still didn't really understand-she was dazed with pain and loss of blood-until she felt warm liquid trickling into her mouth and tasted a strange exotic taste.
Oh, God-no. It's his blood. You're drinking vampire blood.
She tried not to swallow, but the liquid kept flowing in, choking her. It didn't taste at all like blood. It was rich and wild and burned slightly-and she could almost feel it changing her.
You've got to stop this, the cool wind voice told her. New.
With a violent wrench that almost dislocated her shoulder, Hannah got one arm free. Then she started to fight hard, not because she wanted to get away, but because she wanted to keep Thierry occupied in holding her. While they were struggling, she surreptitiously reached out with her free hand.
I can't feel it. She threw her body back and forth, trying to get Thierry to move closer to the desk. Just a little farther... there. There!
Her fingers were on her desk. She stomped on Thierry's foot to keep him distracted. She heard a snarl of pain and Thierry shook her, but her fingers kept groping across the desk until they found something smooth and long, with a pointed graphite end.
A pencil.
Hannah curled her fingers, gathering the pencil into her fist. She was gasping with effort, which meant more of the strange blood was flowing into her mouth.
Now think. Visualize his hand. Picture the pencil going right in, all the way through. And now strike.
Hannah brought the pencil up with all her strength, driving it into the back of Thierry's hand.
She heard a yelp of pain and outrage-and at the same instant she felt a stab of pain herself. She'd driven the pencil all the way through his hand and jabbed her own cheek.
She didn't spend time worrying about it. The iron grip on her had loosened. She slammed a foot into Thierry's shin and spun away as he jerked back.
The desk! You need another weapon!
Even as the voice was telling her, Hannah was teaching for her desk, gathering a random handful of pens and pencils. Thank God for her habit of losing pencils, which was the reason she had to keep so many.
As soon as she had them, she twisted to dart across the room, getting her back to a wall. She faced Thierry, panting.
"This next one goes right into your heart," she told him, pulling one pencil out of the handful and holding it in her fist. Her voice was soft and ragged, but absolutely deadly in its conviction.
"You hurt me!" Thierry had pulled the pencil out and was staring at the wound. His face was contorted, his eyes blazing with animal pain and fury. He looked like a stranger.
"Right," Hannah said, panting. "And if you come close to me again, I'll kill you. That's a promise. Now get the hell out of my house and out of my life!"
Thierry stared back and forth from her to his hand. Then he snarled-really snarled, his upper lip lifting, his teeth bared. Hannah had never seen a human face look so bestial.
"You'll be sorry," he said, like a child in a temper tantrum. "And if you tell anybody about this, I'll kill them. I will. It's Night World law."
Then he did the fade-out thing. Hannah blinked and he wasn't there. He must have backed up down the hall, but she didn't hear a door open or close.
It was several minutes before she could loosen her grip on her pencil or step away from the wall. When she could, it was to stumble toward the phone. She pressed the speed dial for Chess's number. Busy.
Hannah dropped the phone. She was swaying on her feet, feeling sick and giddy, but she headed for the dining room. There, keeping one of the windows shut, was a wooden dowel, the remnant of some long-past safety craze of her mother's. Hannah broke it over her knee and carried one splinter-ended piece with her to the garage.
The dusty old Ford was parked there, the one her father had driven before he died. Hannah found the keys and started for Chess's house. She could think of only one thing: she didn't want to be alone.
Gray spots danced in front of her eyes as she drove. She kept imagining things rushing at her from the prairie.
Stay awake. Just stay awake, she told herself, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.
There! There's the house up ahead. You can see the light. All you have to do is get there.
She stepped on the accelerator. And then everything went gray.
Thierry looked around the resort lobby, then glanced at his watch. He'd been doing that every five minutes for about the last twelve hours, and his nerves were starting to fray.
He didn't like leaving Hannah alone. Of course, the ring would protect her when she was away from the house, and the amulet he'd buried in her backyard would protect the house itself. It was a strong amulet, made for him by Grandma Harman, the oldest and most powerful witch in the world, the Crone of the Inner Circle. It set wards around the house, so that no Night Person could enter without a direct invitation from somebody who lived inside.
He still didn't like leaving Hannah alone.
Only a little while longer, he told himself. It had 'taken him most of last night and all of today to call in enough of his own people to set up a plan for watching over Hannah.