I wished, fiercely, that I weighed a couple of hundred pounds instead of just over thirty.
Wished for longer fangs and sharper claws-- because all I could do was surface damage he healed almost as soon as I inflicted it.
He grabbed me in both hands and threw me at the cement wall.
It seemed as though I flew in slow motion.
There was time to twist and hit on my feet instead of my side as he'd intended.
There was power to vault off unhurt and hit the ground, already running back to attack.
This time, though, I didn't have surprise on my side.
If I'd been running from him, he couldn't have caught me.
But up close, the advantage of superior speed lost out to the disadvantage of my size.
I hurt him once, digging my fangs into his shoulder, but I was looking for a kill--and there was just no way a coyote, no matter how fast or strong, could kill a vampire.
I dodged back, looking for an opening ...
and he fell face-first on the cement floor.
Standing like a victory flag, stuck deep into Blackwood's back, was the walking stick.
"Fair spearman was I once," the oakman said.
"And Lugh was better still.
Nothing he built but what couldn't become a spear when needed." Panting, I stared at him, then down at Blackwood.
Who wiggled.
I shifted back to human because I could deal with doors better that way.
Then I ran for the kitchen where, hopefully, there would be a knife big enough to go through bone.
The wooden block beside the sink yielded both a butcher knife and a large French chef's knife.
I grabbed one in each hand and ran down the stairs.
The door was shut and the knob wouldn't turn.
"Let me in," I ordered in a voice I hardly recognized as mine.
"No.
No," said John's voice.
"You can't kill him.
I'll be alone." But the door opened, and that was all I cared about.
I didn't see John, but Catherine was kneeling beside Blackwood.
She spared a glare for me, but she was paying more attention to the dying (I fervently hoped) vampire.
"Let me drink, dear," she crooned to him.