I twisted until I could free Zee's knife from its sheath. It took more effort than it should have.
Littleton had gone limp, his body flopped over faceup when Andre pushed him off. The stake had gone all the way through Littleton and protruded several inched through his chest. It had sliced into Andre, just above his collarbone, but he didn't seem to mind. He lay flat on his back and laughed, though he didn't sound happy.
The pain was back with interest, making me nauseous and light-headed. I swallowed bile and sat up using my good arm to push down and lever myself into a useful position. The knife in my hand clicked on the floor.
I'd killed mice, rabbits, and, once, a deer while running as a coyote. I'd killed two men—three, now. It didn't help me face the next task. Bryan, my foster father, used to hunt, both as a wolf and with a gun. He and Evelyn, his wife, had butchered the meat while I wrapped it in freezer paper. I'd never had to cut up the carcass myself.
Zee's knife cut into Littleton's neck with a wet slurping sound. I'd thought Littleton to be dead… deader than he'd been before, I mean. But as the knife slid in, his body began to spasm.
The motion attracted Andre's attention and he sat up, "What? No, wait!"
His hand closed on mine hard enough to leave bruises, and he jerked my hand back. Littleton's head flopped to the side. The effect was somehow more grisly than if the head had been completely severed.
"Let go," I said, almost not recognizing the hoarse croak as my own voice. I jerked my hand, but he wouldn't release his grip.
"Marsilia needs him. She can control him."
Metal fell with a loud crash: the sorcerer's power was failing, allowing his prisoners to escape. Adam crouched beside me just a hair sooner than Samuel appeared on my other side. Both werewolves were snarling almost soundlessly and I knew, almost without looking at them that the human parts of them were gone, leaving only the predator behind.
That the knowledge didn't frighten me to death is a measure of how traumatized I was.
"Let go of me," I said again, this time softly so as not to alarm the werewolves who were quivering with eagerness and the smell of fresh blood. I wasn't really sure why they hadn't just attacked.
Andre stared first at Adam, then at Samuel. I don't know that he was trying to control them, but if he was, it didn't work. Adam growled and Samuel whined eagerly and took a half step closer.
Andre released my wrist. I didn't wait any longer, pressing the knife through meat, gristle, and bone until Littleton's head rolled free and the knife cut into the linoleum.
I'd been wrong: it was worse when the head was all the way severed.
Throw up later, I thought. Destroy the body now.
The backpack wasn't more than a body length from me, but I couldn't find the energy to get to it.
"What do you need?" asked Stefan who was crouched on the other side of the body, next to Andre. I hadn't noticed that he'd left his cage, too—or that he'd moved at all. He was just suddenly in front of me.
"The backpack," I said.
He got up like it hurt, and moved with none of his usual energy, returning with the backpack in hand. Both of the wolves stiffened when he held the pack out toward me, over Littleton's body. Stefan was moving slowly because he was in bad shape—but it was probably a good thing. Making sudden moves around the werewolves would have been a bad idea, even if they had relaxed, just a bit, when I'd removed the sorcerer's head.
As I reached out to take the pack, Andre spoke again. "Marsilia needs him, Stefan. If she has a sorcerer at her beck and call, the others will have to cower in her presence."
"Marsilia can cow them on her own," Stefan responded tiredly. "A sorcerer is not a comfortable pet. Marsilia has allowed greed to overcome her common sense."
The medallion wasn't a very big item and it hid from my fingers. It was heavy though, so I finally managed to locate it in the bottom. I took it out and put it on Littleton's chest.
"What is that?" asked Stefan.
Rather than answering him, I leaned over Littleton's chest and whispered, "Drachen." Burn you bastard, burn.
The metal disk started to glow cherry red. For a moment I thought that was all it would do. But after a moment the body burst into flame, the almost-invisible blue flame of a Bunsen burner with the gas adjusted perfectly. I had a moment to wonder at the suddenness of it, then Stefan leapt over the body, grabbed me under the arms and pulled me back before I was caught up in the hungry flames.
His grip reminded me I had an injured shoulder in the worst way. The sudden pain was so intense I screamed.
"Shh," said Stefan ignoring the werewolves who were eyeing him with hungry eyes. "It'll settle down in a minute."
He sat me down and put my head between my knees. His hands were still cold, like those of a corpse. Which he was.
"Breathe," he said.
I couldn't help a hiccoughing laugh at having a dead man tell me to breathe.
"Mercy?" he asked.
I was saved from trying to explain why I was laughing because the outside doors were pulled open with a screech of bending metal.
Stefan turned to face this new threat, a werewolf on either side. Andre stood up as well. All of them kept me from seeing the doorway, but I could smell them.
Darryl and two others. The frightened child inside my heart, unappeased by Littleton's immolation, relaxed at last.
"You're late, Bran." I told him as the light from the burning vampire flickered and died.
It wasn't the Marrok who answered me, but his second son, Charles. "I told Darryl he shouldn't speed. If the police hadn't pulled us over, we'd have been here ten minutes ago."
Bran walked by the vampires as if they didn't exist. He touched Samuel and then Adam. "Charles has clothing for you," he told them and they melted away into the darkness, presumably to change and get dressed. Bran's presence did as much to allow them to regain enough control to change back to human as Littleton's death had. His permanent death, I mean.
The dim light from outside backlit Bran, so it was difficult to see his face.
"You've been busy," he said, his tone neutral.
"No choice," I told him. "Did you read the papers I left for you?" Do you know that all the villains aren't ashes?
"Yes," Bran said, and something inside of me relaxed. He couldn't know which of the vampires was Andre—but he'd manage, I knew.
Uncaring of vampire dust—or whatever else of Littleton might be scattered about on the floor—Bran knelt in front of me so he could bend down and kiss my forehead.
"It was a damned stupid thing to do," he said in a voice so soft as to be almost inaudible.
"I thought you couldn't make it here until morning," I said.
"I hurried." He put his hand on my shoulder.
"Ouch," I said, sinking farther down on the floor.
"Samuel," he called. "If you could manage to hurry a bit, I think you have a patient."
My shoulder was only out of joint and Samuel put it back as gently as he could. It still hurt like the blazes. I shuddered and shook, and managed not to throw up on anyone, while Adam, his voice harsh with barely controlled rage, told everyone what had happened after Andre and I showed up.