Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

myself away.
    “I can take the bloodsucker,” Dali said. “If the magic is up.”
    Jim grimaced. “This isn’t a regular vampire. You’ve never seen one like that. It’s old .”
    She shook her head. “The older, the better. But it will take everything I got. I can do it once and that’s it. Then I’ll need a nap.”
    I looked at Dali. If she took out the vamp, they would lock on her. Four to three, lousy odds, especially with an air mage in the mix. There was a way I could make her safe. It would be a foolish and reckless move under normal circumstances. But with d’Ambray watching, it qualified as mind-numbingly stupid.
    If she failed, she had no protection against the vampire. It would tear into her and I would hear her scream.
    “If you can take out the bloodsucker, I’ll make you safe for the rest of the fight, provided the magic holds.”
    “How?”
    “Blood ward. It locks all magic out, including your own. You cast the curse and jump into the ward. Once you step into it, it will keep you locked in. You won’t be able to exit without my help. But nobody else will be able to enter.”
    Dali bit her lip. “What if it doesn’t work?”
    “You just have to trust me.”
    She considered it for a long moment. “Okay.”
    Jim shook his head. “Consider taking a fourth.”
    “No,” Curran and I said at the same time. I didn’t want any more friends on my conscience.
    Doolittle sighed.
    I rose. “This will take a bit of practice.”
     
     
    THE VAMPIRE CROUCHED BY CYCLONE, OOZING necromantic magic. Jim was right. This one was old . No sign of it ever walking upright remained. It waited on all fours, like a dog that had somehow sprouted humanoid limbs tipped with stiletto claws. The last lingering echoes of its humanity had faded long ago. It had become a thing , so revoltingly alien and frightening it sent shivers down my spine.
    Not an ounce of fat remained on its frame. Its thick skin clung so tightly to its steel-cable muscles that it resembled wax poured over an anatomy model made by a demented sculptor. Sharp bone protuberations broke the skin along its spine, creating a jagged ridge. Its nose was missing, and not even a slit remained. Massive, lipless jaws jutted from its sickening face, revealing a forest of fangs embedded in crimson gums. A thick horn protruded from the back of its deformed skull. Its eyes glowed dark hungry red, like rubies thrust into the skull of a demon.
    I found the sharp, painful light of its mind and waited in the shadows. If Dali failed, I would crush it, whether it gave me away or not.
    Next to it rose a troll. A hulking creature, he stood almost nine feet tall. His skin was dark brown, uneven, and gnarled, interrupted by patches of rougher brown. A single adjective came to mind: thick. Thick tree-trunk legs, ending in flat, round stumps of elephantine feet. Thick midsection with a round stomach that looked too hard to be termed “gut.” Thick chest. Massively broad shoulders slabbed with thick muscle. Thick neck, bigger than my thigh. Thick, round head resembling a stump with a flat face. Eyes sunken deep into dark sockets, a stunted Persian cat nose, and a narrow slash of a mouth. Two tusks protruded from his lower jaw, stretching his mouth into a smirk. He looked as though he’d been carved out of a gargantuan tree trunk and allowed to petrify. Screw the spear; he’d break a chain saw.
    On the far left a man waited. He was young and dark-skinned, his skull clean shaven. He had the build of a gymnast, wore nothing, and carried two identical swords. I’d never seen any quite like them. Bastard children of a scimitar and a katana, they had the narrow slickness of the Japanese blade and a slight curve with a flare at the point inherited from the Arabic sword. Three feet long and an inch and a half at the narrowest, the blades were both lively and devastating.
    As we entered the Arena, the man changed. A pale sheen coated his strong features. His shape expanded with gray thickness. Armor formed on his shoulders: a textured pauldron on his left shoulder, a thinner one on his right. Huge wrist guards clamped his forearms. A wide metal belt sheathed his loins, dripping down a narrow metal cloth to protect his testicles. His body glistened with moisture and dried in an instant, snapping into sleek gray smoothness. Everything but his eyes was metal. The silver golem.
    The swords pointed in my direction. Just what I needed: a tin man on steroids. Wandering around