Chapter 29

No.Not again.

Spinning on my heel, I lunge toward his fallen body.

From behind me, a giant's voice booms, "I'll hold them off!"

That must be Kit. No doubt she's changed to match that voice.

A second later, the sound of her enormous fist slamming into someone's flesh confirms it.

I block out the sounds of the fight, focusing on the prone figure in front of me. Valerian's clothes are singed where the ball hit him, but the skin underneath isn't charred, just reddened, like after a bad sunburn.

The breath I've been holding escapes my lungs. He must know how much of a trouble magnet he is, and wore protective gear.

I check his pulse. Faint but there.

My own pulse settles into a steadier rhythm. Swiftly, I scan myself for any hint of vampire blood from earlier. I know I said he needs to abstain, but I'd rather he live as an addict than not at all.

No blood left. All cleaned up by Valerian himself.

"Crap." Kit's voice sounds tiny this time, as though she's inhaled a bunch of helium.

It jerks me back to what's happening. As much as I want to fuss over Valerian, there's an impossible task before us: stop the bomb before the timer runs out.

I pry the gun out of his fingers.

The gun is dead. The electricity of the High Priest's projectile must've fried something. Holding the useless weapon, I leap to my feet and face Kit.

She's a giant again—and kicking a gargoyle Icelus in a harlequin mask.

The High Priest hurls another lightning ball at Kit.

She turns into something small with wings—either a pixie or a hummingbird.

The projectile whooshes through the empty air.

The elf in a drekavac mask, the one who made the sacrifice earlier, runs under tiny Kit and heads straight for me.

Kit turns back into a giant, preventing any other Icelus from coming this way.

I aim at the elf. "Freeze!" I order in my best imitation of a cop's voice. "Drop the knife, or I'll shoot."

The elf keeps coming, his face unreadable under that mask.

Puck. He's calling my bluff. Gulping in a panicked breath, I wait until he's almost upon me before I hurl the gun at his head.

The elf must've had some training. He dodges the projectile with ease and sneers, "Did you bring a broken gun to a knife fight?"

Crouching, I sweep at his legs. He jumps over my foot and slashes at me with his dagger.

Pain sears through me. The knife has just sliced through my forearm.

I grit my teeth, ignoring both the pain and the panic I feel at the thought of the earlier victim's blood mixing with mine. If I freak out, I'm as good as dead. Even without the freak out, there's probably less than nine minutes left to live.

Hoping it's the last thing he'd expect, I uppercut the elf with my injured arm.

The injury makes my swing clumsy, and the elf jerks his head back before coming at my throat with a dagger.

I catch his wrist before the blade connects.

He goes to punch me, but I catch that wrist as well.

Thank puck he's especially skinny.

He tries to twist out of my grip, but I hold on with all my strength, ignoring the blood spurting from my arm.

Eyes cutting to my injury, he hisses, "How long do you think you can keep this up?"

I headbutt him in reply, my forehead smashing into the drekavac mask. The mask splits. Stars explode in my vision—but hopefully even more in his.

He kicks me in the knee. My kneecap screams in agony. He jerks on his wrists again and pushes me with his whole body.

I lose balance, taking him with me as I fall.

Ouch. I land on my back, air whooshing out of my lungs. To my shock, I'm still gripping his wrists.

He aims the dagger at my neck and presses down. I let go of his left wrist and grasp his right one with both hands to keep the knife from reaching me. The blood from my forearm drips onto my face, but I ignore it, straining with all I've got.

He grabs the knife with his free hand and pushes harder.

I do my best to hold him, but a male, even a skinny elf, is stronger than me.

Inch by inch, the knife descends.