Page 110 of A Shade Too Far
Then in one fell movement, he swung.
Zev recoiled, then lurched forward in a single step like he yearned to put himself between the staff and the gloves except he’d been paralyzed by shock.
I tore free, jumping between Naveen’s weapon and the stage. My scythe clanged against his weapon, but the momentum of his swing was too strong, and my magic fell apart.
Weaponless, I stumbled back under the impact. My tailbone banged into the edge of the stage, the light staff whistling past my face.
I grabbed the gloves with the dybbuk still knocking about inside and clutched them to my chest, aware of Zev tracking my motion, standing tensely on the balls of his feet as if barely holding himself back from charging me.
Emmett hustled Tatiana toward the speakeasy’s exit while Laurent and Naveen went for Frances.
I ran over to the vampire and stuffed the gloves in his hands. “Here. Tatiana, Emmett, and I didn’t know this was happening, but the men were desperate to save her. I’m sorry.”
He clasped the gloves to his chest with a deep exhale, like a prisoner on death row who’d just received a pardon.
Grunting loudly, Naveen tripped forward, a knife sticking out of his right arm. The Brit whirled on Frances, flipped his hold on the staff so his left hand was dominant, and swung at her.
She spun sideways out of reach, another blade appearing in her palm.
“Are you okay?” I asked Zev.
The dybbuk familiar flew after Tatiana, driving the elderly artist to her knees with a cry.
Zev frowned at me, but if he planned on retribution, he could take a number. I sprinted over to help Laurent protect his aunt since he and I were the only two who could see the dybbuk. Maybe between us we could weaken it enough that it couldn’t finish Tatiana off.
I rematerialized my weapon, cried “Mut!” once more, and hacked into the dybbuk. It split into two, Laurent catching one half in his mouth and tossing it away, buying us precious seconds before it reformed.
Frances screamed, and I spun in time to watch her fall, one hand on her burbling neck.
Zev wiped the blood from her torn-out throat on his suit, calmly inclined his head at me, and strode from the room.
I gaped at him until Laurent headbutted my hip since the dybbuk was still attacking.
Naveen sprinted after the vampire, his sleeve seeped with crimson.
Juliette had been checking Tatiana out, but she ran over to the Banim Shovavim, who was still alive—barely.
Laurent could handle the dybbuk who slowed its attack as Frances’s strength ebbed; now it was up to me to handle Frances.
“Stop,” I commanded the healer.
“I can save her,” Juliette protested.
I hefted my scythe. “I said no.”
I stuffed Frances’s gasps for help into some coldly clinical part of me. A woman, a Jew, a Banim Shovavim—and a murderer.
Frances and I had more in common than I’d anticipated.
She twitched her fingers, a shudder running through her body, then she blinked slowly. The light faded from her eyes, and in that last millisecond of her life, I slashed my weapon through the dybbuk.
The familiar cleaved in half and imploded. Dead.
Just like Frances.
“Now!” I urged Juliette, yelling her name when she didn’t instantly respond.
She jumped in to heal the damage to the woman’s neck and defibrillate her heart.
