Chapter 39

I wrigglemy toes inside my shoes. I was right—they're wriggling away. His glamour didn't work. The vampire blood has left my system and my resistance to glamour is back—or Filth simply isn't as powerful as Kain when it comes to penetrating my defenses.

I pretend like I am frozen, though, and frantically ponder my next move.

Filth takes a syringe out of his pocket. "I've been designated as your executioner. The Council wants me to provide you with a choice between euthanasia"—he waves the syringe in the air—"or starvation." He nods at the room behind me.

Inside my chest, my heart is jackrabbiting, but I do my best to keep my face placid, as if frozen by glamour.

"I'll simplify it for you, though." He turns the syringe needle downward and presses the plunger until all the poison is on the floor. "I'll drink you dry, then toss your body out for Nessie to munch on. As far as the Council is concerned, you opted for starvation and then proved dumb enough to try to escape via the sewers."

He's thought this through. Anyone who doesn't know me well might even believe him—never mind that I'd sooner starve a hundred times before I'd jump into that excuse for a toilet… even if there weren't a monster lurking in the sewers.

Filth stalks toward me.

I furtively position the lockpicks to stick out of my fist and wait for my moment. This is a vampire, and no martial arts training can overcome the fact that even a skinny, weaselly specimen like him is ten times stronger than I am, and impossibly fast. The element of surprise is my only hope—and a faint one, if I'm honest with myself.

"I could command you not to feel anything," he says when he's within striking distance, "but I won't. This will hurt."

He's right. It will hurt.

Him.

Without warning, I smash my fist into his face. With a disgustingly squishy sound, the lockpicks enter his right eye.

He staggers back, roaring in pain. I fight the urge to heave, and kick him in the groin. He roars again and strikes me with the back of his hand. My head jerks sideways, and stars explode in my vision.

He throws a punch at my jaw. I somehow dodge it, moving purely on autopilot. By now, I've recovered enough to hit him, only he moves preternaturally fast and I miss. Before I can block, his elbow crashes into my midsection. My solar plexus explodes in pain, and I bend over, wheezing.

He grabs me by my shirt and effortlessly tosses me into the air. As I fly through the hallway, I spot a ray of hope down the corridor.

Thud. I crash into the iron bars with my back, and the two molecules of oxygen left in my lungs escape with a whoosh. The pain tries to drag me into unconsciousness, but I fight it with my whole being. I need to stall in case that ray of hope wasn't a hallucination of my rattled brain.

Gulping in greedy breaths, I look up at Filth pleadingly and raise my hand as if I need to say something.

He doesn't look like he wants to talk. His eye hasn't healed. Some vamps have better recuperation abilities than others, and his is clearly on the lower end of the spectrum.

Fangs sliding out, he hisses, "I'll make this slow."