long throat, dragging the head back, the gnashing teeth away from Jack's upraised arms as Jack fought to block its bite at his head
and throat.
Garrett, for fear of striking him, held her fire.
And then the monster turned, writhed, its white teeth slicked with red as it turned its head over its shoulder on a longer neck than a wolf's or a lion's, rolling in Sebastien's grip and rolling with Sebastien, taking him over, taking him down, off Jack, trying to scrape the wampyr off on the cold cold ground.
And—as Doctor Tesla bounded past her, something in his hands and his arms uplifted—showing Abby Irene its belly.
She had four bullets. She put each one, methodically, in a line from the animal's groin to the center of its chest, while Doctor Tesla stood over it, silently and savagely chopping at the beast's head with the edge of a flat
coal shovel.
* * *
The monster's blood was not savory in his mouth. Sebastien shoved the body—half-headless, from Doctor Tesla's efforts—off his chest and rolled to his knees, spitting. He didn't bother to stand—no time—but crawled across the corpse and across the slick stones toward Jack, and Phoebe, who bent over him, her dress shredded all down the side, her hands covered with something that looked black in the moonlight. Ten feet, only, and before Sebastien had covered three of them Abby Irene was grabbing at his coatsleeve, trying to hold him back.
He brushed her aside like a ghost. Phoebe, seeing him coming, ducked aside.
No need to tear his wrist with his teeth for the blood; the beast had bitten and clawed him to the bone. His coat hung in tatters, his shirt shredded. He willed blood into his wounds, felt it swell his dry flesh, saw it drip from the gashes. "Jack. Jack."
Heartbeat, there must be a heartbeat. Something other than glazed eyes and the smell of piss. He had still been fighting when Sebastien hauled the animal away. "Jack, damn you, drink—" and he smeared blood on Jack's lips, on his tongue, trying not to see the crushed chest, the torn throat dripping blood rather than spurting.
Whatever was on the stones soaked through his trousers. There was a hand on his shoulder. From across Jack's body, Phoebe reached out and grabbed his wrist, and when Sebastien would have shaken her off the pulped ribs gave under his hand and he made a sound that hurt his own ears more than that damned ringing, or the evil buzz of the useless death ray.
A wind even colder than the midnight air stroked his neck, and when he turned his head, he saw the wolves. A ring three deep, surrounding him and Abby Irene, Doctor Tesla, Phoebe. . .and Jack. Their bones showed through the ghosty skin, and their eyes reflected the moon, but not the electric light. They lay atop the wall and they sat upon the stones and they paced and circled, walking through each other as often as they walked past.
At their center and front was Courtaut, his cropped tail held low, his
ears pricked.
If there had been a stone in Sebastien's hand, he would have hurled it. If he breathed, he would have held his breath. But all he could do was stare.
The wolf stared back. And then, when he expected it to leap, or fade, or something—it turned and vanished over the wall, towards the frozen river, and all its brothers and sisters followed after like a wall of fog rolling down a bank.
In half a minute they were gone, blended and torn and blown away, nothing but mist and memory.
In their wake the air felt warm.
Sebastien raised his eyes to Phoebe, her torn dress, the blood smearing her cheek and matting her hair. Long gashes bled freely along her thigh, her skirt and petticoats torn aside, but it looked as if the glancing blow had been otherwise defeated by her corset, and the blood wasn't spurting.
"You're hurt, Mrs. Smith," Sebastien said, Abby Irene's hand tightening on his shoulder, her calf and knee and thigh pressed to his side.
"So are you," she said.
Sebastien slipped his wrist from her grasp and knelt back on his toes, his hands open on his knees. "I'll heal," he said.
And wished it wasn't true.
* * *
In the hours while they waited for Renault's summons, Garrett barely slept. Sebastien was brittle and silent—though never less than courteous with her or with Phoebe. Phoebe seemed to deal with her own loss by caretaking Sebastien during the day, when he