Biting Cold: A Chicagoland Vampires Novel (CHICAGOLAND VAMPIRES SERIES)

widened.
    “Behind you!” he called out.
    I looked back. Mallory had gathered together a ball of magic that now glowed between her hands. The bluish light reflected unflatteringly up and across her face, like a flashlight held beneath the chin of a schoolchild. And then, as if I were a stranger—a threat instead of a longtime friend—she pitched that magic directly at me.
    My first instinct was to duck. After all, I’d taken an orb or two and the sparks from a dozen others when I hadn’t been fast enough in training. I assumed those had contained only low-grade magic, but they still hurt, leaving ugly burns that took a few days to fade, even on a quick-healing vampire.
    Honestly, that instinct kicked in pretty quickly, and I dodged and wove around two or three orbs that shattered against the walls behind me.
    But as I dodged, I also wondered . . .
    Catcher hadn’t let me use my sword during magical dodgeball. I’d assumed he hadn’t wanted to risk damaging my antique katana. But what if the issue wasn’t damage to the sword—but damage to the orb?
    That possibility was, I thought, worth a little experiment. And so, instead of continuing to avoid Mallory’s magic, I decided to stare it down.
    I gripped the handle of my sword in both hands and raised the sword in front of me . . . just like a bat.
    Going , I thought to myself.
    Mallory slung the orb into the air like a major league pitch, its flight straight and true and aimed for my heart. I wiggled my fingers around the handle . . . and when the moment was right, I swung.
    Going .
    The vibration of pure magic and magical steel—steel I had tempered with my own vampiric blood all those moons ago—nearly wrenched off my arm. But I kept my fingers tight around the leather and ray-skin handle . . . and watched the orb shatter into a million blue sparks.
    “Gone,” I murmured, watching the fireworks until the sparks dissipated, then sliding my gaze back to Mallory, eyebrow arched in a perfect imitation of Ethan. “Got anything else?”
    She apparently took my sarcasm as a challenge. One orb after another flew in my direction, each one spicier—more magically potent—than the last. She worked with the effort—teeth gritted, forehead damp even in the November chill.
    And she made me work, too. I pulled out every move and maneuver I’d ever practiced, or seen Catcher or Ethan execute, or watched on Wrigley Field. I slashed forward, backward, and from both sides. I flipped backward to avoid a pale blue orb, then flew to the floor to avoid a shot aimed at my head.
    It missed me by more than it should have. Mallory was getting tired.
    Normally, she’d have been smart enough to think through her actions, to plan a couple of steps ahead. But tonight, if she was already tired, maybe I could bait her one more time.
    I stood up again and crooked a finger in her direction, as Ethan had done so many times for me. “You want me? Come and get me.”
    She bared her teeth, then began to spin her fingers and pull together another ball of magic from the ether.
    I opened my arms. “You think you can hit me, witch? Right in the chest?”
    She wound up and threw her pitch.
    I let every vampire sensibility loose—sight, sound, taste, smell. The world exploded into sensations, but events around me seemed to slow down because of it. I watched the orb of blue light inch toward me; in slow motion, its surface was a pitted swirl of energy, and it sought out a landing spot, a home.
    I fully intended to give it one.
    Before she could reload or move out of the way, I pulled up my sword—not to bat the orb into a thousand pieces . . . but to reflect it. I held the katana directly in front of me, the cutting edge to the side, and the mirrorlike steel toward Mallory.
    The orb hit the blade with enough force to rattle the steel. But tempered and honed, it did its job. The orb bounced right off and flew back toward Mallory. Slower on the return trip, but its direction true. It hit her square in the chest and sent her flying across the room. She hit the wall and then the floor, thudding down with a bounce that probably broke a few of her ribs, too.
    At least she couldn’t hurt anyone else, or herself, for a little while. One bad guy down . . . Now back to the other one.
    And the other one was engaged in his own fierce battle. Tate, who could manipulate a car right off the road with magic, had apparently wanted a different kind of challenge. He’d produced a sword of his own, a