“Don’t. Don’t say it. Not another word.” The smile flattened and her hands came up like a shield. “Stop trying to keep me from getting—”

He pulled her in and kissed her soundly, fully aware it might be for the last time. When he let her go, she sucked in a deep breath. “Not trying to stop you.” He shook his head. “Not anymore. Just figured I might not get another chance to say what I need to.”

“You will.” Her chin wobbled once. Out of anger or another emotion, he couldn’t guess. Maybe she did understand what he was trying to tell her after all. If only he knew for sure. Or could gauge what she was thinking.

“I’m glad you’re so sure.”

She hauled back and punched him in the chest.

“What the hell was that for?”

“Bad timing.” With that, she spun around and marched toward Atticus’s door.

Half an hour to midnight and Creek had killed more demons, goblins, rabid fringe vampires, and a whole bunch of other unnamed nasties, including a giant centipede, than he could keep track of. Despite the mayor’s assurances to the police that he was one of the good guys, a few of the officers he’d encountered hadn’t trusted him until he’d rescued them. He’d rescued varcolai along with them, too, all men sent out on patrol to do the same thing he was doing, trying to keep the city from being overrun. When they’d let him, he’d given the police a quick lesson in bringing most creatures down with a shot through the heart, throat, or eye, then either removing the head or putting a stake through the heart. At least the varcolai had serviceable blades. The police, on the other hand, were going to need some new weapons more appropriate than guns for this kind of fighting.

A thin sheen of sweat, blood, and guts covered him. Fortunately, only a little of the blood was his. Other than some scratches, a cut above his left eye, and a gash on his right bicep, he was in good shape. His clothes, on the other hand… he would have to burn them when he got home because there was no washing machine on earth equipped to get this kind of stench out.

He leaned back on his bike and wiped his face with his forearm. He was tired, but it was a good tired, like after a hard workout. Which could sort of describe what he’d just been through. Except it wasn’t over.

As if on cue, his phone started vibrating. With a hard sigh, he dug it out of his pocket. Not a text this time, but a call. From Argent, because, who else?

“Creek,” he answered.

“How’s it going?” Argent asked.

“KM three hundred, bad guys zip.”

“I do not understand.”

Creek rolled his eyes skyward. The gargoyles were still flying. “It’s going fine. I’ve killed more creatures than I can name. You know some of these demons breathe fire?” He also wanted to ask if they were related, but knew better. Just like he knew to keep the news about Yahla to himself. He didn’t need his boss thinking he’d been hallucinating. Or worse, been affected by the magic.

“Yes, we are aware. I’m calling because our source in Corvinestri has checked in with disturbing news. Tatiana was in Paradise City recently. She apparently came in the guise of another vampiress, who she kept prisoner in her home while traveling with the vampiress’s husband. He was successful in capturing and returning with a comarré, but that comarré was not Chrysabelle, obviously. The husband then committed suicide or was killed because of this error. Most likely Tatiana killed him and covered it up. She’s also been made Dominus, so her power has increased.”

“Great. Just what she needs—more resources.”

“It’s good and bad. Yes, it gives her more resources, but it also eats into her time. As Dominus, she can’t just flit off on a whim. She has a house to run. That’s not the worst of it, though, or the main reason I’m calling.”

How much worse could it be? “Lay it on me.”

“Tatiana has somehow come into possession of a half-vampire, half-human child.”

Creek closed his eyes and dropped his head. “Hell. Worse is right.”

“When this crisis is past, you are to recruit the comarré and the anathema vampire and send them to Corvinestri to retrieve the child. Once they return with it, the Kubai Mata will take charge of the child. It is imperative. We believe this child is the key in turning the swelling tide of vampire power.”

“Just like that, go get the kid and bring it back? How exactly do you think I’m going to get them to do that? Tatiana wants to kill both of them. I don’t think they’re going to waltz in and grab this child just because I say please.”

“Tell the comarré she will do it, or her life will be forfeit in exchange for the ring she has yet to return to us.”

A chill washed over him. “If she doesn’t go after the child, you’re going to kill her?”

“No,” Argent corrected him. “You are.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

He loved her. Chrysabelle knew that was what Mal had wanted to tell her. The very idea both elated her and made her want to shove her sacre through him. Not anywhere fatal, just someplace it would leave a mark. Why would he want to tell her such a thing like that at a time like this? She was about to have molten gold stitched into her flesh in a ritual that required her to be as calm and centered as possible. And he loved her. Holy mother, it was hard not to punch him. Or kiss him again.

If that wasn’t what he’d meant to tell her… She’d just not think about that now. Or anything else. Instead she knocked on Atticus’s door. Thankfully, he answered without making her wait too long.