Page 93

Lachlan curses, shaking his head. "When you took the throne, it must have sent a shockwave straight through the leylines. The defenses needed time to reset. Julian must have had strike teams waiting in the city for something like this. Stay behind me."

"Lachlan, don’t be stupid. I have magic, dude. I'm coming with you."

I sprint for the desk, my sneakers squeaking on the parquet. I grab the two dwarf daggers and clumsily jam the sheaths into the waistband of my jeans, nearly stabbing myself in the hip in the process. I don't know how to use daggers. I know how to cite Chicago Manual of Style. We are in so much trouble.

A massive BANG rattles the house.

Down the hall, the heavy oak cellar door blows completely apart. Splintered wood and black water explode straight into the kitchen.

"Stay in the library!" Lachlan roars, but he’s already sprinting down the hall before the sentence finishes.

Yeah, okay, let me just sit in the room made entirely of dry paper while vampires invade.

I run after him.

The kitchen is an absolute disaster. The pantry floor is a gaping black hole spewing stinking, greasy swamp water across the tiles, and crawling out of the gap are three Sanguine thralls—bloated, gray-skinned leeches covered in sewer muck, their mouths stretching open way too wide, long yellow fangs dripping black venom onto the floor.

"Are you shitting me?" I yell from the doorway. "I literally just got this house! Do you have any idea what water damage does to hardwood?"

The nearest thrall doesn't answer. He hisses, a wet, choking sound, and lunges straight for my face.

I don't do a cool martial arts flip, seeing as how I wouldn’t even know where to start with that.

Instead, I panic.

As one does.

I ignore the daggers, reach out, and grab the twelve-inch cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove with both hands. I swing it like a baseball bat with everything I have.

CLANG.

The bottom of the skillet connects directly with the side of his jaw. His head snaps sideways with a loud crack, his feet slip out from under him on the wet tile, and he crashes into the pantry shelves, bringing down three cans of crushed tomatoes on top of his head.

"Holy shit," I yell, my entire arms aching from the impact. I try to shake one out. "Cast-iron really is the goat."

Before I can swing again, cold fingers wrap around the collar of my sweater.

The second thrall lunges over the island. His rotting face inches from mine, smelling like death. He yanks me forward, his mouth opening wide to bite my throat.

"Get the fuck off me,"

I can't get the pan up in time. Blind terror takes over. I drop the skillet and shove my bare right hand directly into his neck.

Bad move.

The second my skin touches his, that horrible, boiling heat from the bookstore explodes in my chest. That disgusting Sanguine blood-reflex.

I cringe, because I know what’s coming.

The thrall shrieks.

Under my palm, his flesh instantly turns to soup, skin bubbling. Then he literally melts, turning into a thick sludge that spatters across the counter and drips down my forearm.

Fucking gross.

The smell of burned meat and chemical sludge fills the air.

“Oh God, I'm gonna puke, I'm actually gonna throw up on the floor," I mutter. “I wonder if there’s a way I can do that that’s less… disgusting.”