Page 132 of Thirst
He spun and lunged at me, teeth bared. I threw up my arm, parrying his strike with my blade—and suddenly, Cain was there, driving his weapon into Rodrigo’s chest.
He froze, shock widening his eyes.
Cain shot me a quick, toothy grin. Got him.
He jerked his blade from Rodrigo and together, we watched him crumple to the ground.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Twilight stake a man, too.
The odds were just about even now.
Then Talon called, “James! Behind you.”
But it was too late. When I turned to look, Dussault had staked the Maritime enforcer from behind. He jerked his blade from James’s back and crept toward Brien.
Twilight yelled a warning, but the tall blond primus had already swung around like he had eyes in the back of his head. He stalked forward, a dagger in each hand, a storm given shape and purpose.
“Was it you?” he spat out. “Did you order Nazaire to stake my mother?”
Dussault shook his head. “Order? No. But the enforcer was on Lilith Island with my permission.”
“To do what?” Brien demanded between his teeth.
Dussault smiled. “Whatever he could get away with,” he said, and attacked, one dagger aimed at Brien’s chest, the other whipping toward his face.
Brien’s daggers flashed, knocking one of the blades out of Dussault’s hand and forcing him to fall back.
The weapon flew toward Cain. He snagged it mid-air and slid it into an empty pocket.
When Maxime objected, Cain rounded on him. “Shut the fuck up. Your primus broke the rules of the challenge, not us.”
The older vampire scowled but backed off.
Around us, the fighting faltered as the clash between the two primuses hit like a shockwave—one of those instinctive, bone-deep signals that made everyone else pull back because the danger spiked. By unspoken consent, the two sides drifted to opposite edges of the clearing, giving the primuses space, all of us waiting to see how the battle played out.
Cain pulled me behind him. This time, I let him. He was on edge, torn between protecting me and watching his friend battle for his life.
I rested my hand on his lower back and edged sideways until I had a clear view of the fight.
Dussault circled left, Brien shadowing him. Brien lunged; Dussault twisted away. The fight erupted—Dussault all cool precision; Brien a relentless, fluid force. Their strikes blurred, nearly too fast to follow.
Then Brien shifted, paused. A tiny changeup in rhythm.
Dussault attacked, clearly believing he’d found an opening.
He hadn’t.
Brien’s blade caught Dussault’s wrist mid-strike, cleaving it in two and sending his remaining dagger to the ground. His second blade took an upward arc that tore through his opponent’s chest and burst out between his shoulder blades. For a few seconds Dussault hung there, impaled, face contorted in a silent scream.
“Burn in the noonday sun,” Brien ground out, and yanked the blade free.
Dussault staggered, crashing to the frozen earth with a bone-jarring thud. His body convulsed once. He gave a single, inhuman groan that raised goosebumps all over my body, then stilled, blood blooming on his chest like a dark flower.
Brien stood over him, blades dripping crimson on the trampled snow. A thick smoke swirled around his long legs, fed by the slain vampires turning to ashes around us.
He snarled at what remained of the QCS upper hierarchy, his eyes rimmed a burning blue. “Anyone else?”
Every last one of them recoiled, Adam’s apples bobbing. “No, my lord,” they chorused.
