27
Wolfsheim’s incoming weight knocks me down, and pain stabs through my spine and neck. Nothing broken, I don’t think, but I can’t seem to make my lungs work. One of my arms is trapped under his knee, and he pins my other arm above my head with his left hand. His sharp teeth rake along my cheek, nearly nicking my eye. He’s stronger than I expected—stronger than Jay, stronger, I suspect, than any of the others.
Desperately I struggle to inhale through the shock and the pain. When I finally manage a breath, Wolfsheim’s scent invades my lungs, mint and cold iron and violence.
I can’t speak. His right hand clutches my jaws, an aching pressure. He’s holding my mouth shut, keeping my voice in check.
But he hasn’t killed me yet.
“What are you?” he hisses.
The vise grip on my jaw keeps me from answering. It makes me mad when people do that in movies—ask questions while their victims are gagged or screaming. So ridiculous. And the anger of being in that very situation myself gives me a moment’s relief from fear—a few seconds of clarity.
One of my wrists is pressed to the floor right by my head, near my hair comb. My fingers writhe, twisting, finding the edge of the comb. But Wolfsheim is pinning my wrist too tightly—I can’t pull the comb free or use it. And with his weight crushing my chest and his hand covering my mouth, I can hardly breathe.
I’m going to die. Here, on the floor, voiceless and powerless, while Jay and the others are being slaughtered by vampires much stronger and more violent than any glutton.
I don’t want to die. Not when I finally started to figure out what I want in life. Not when I’ve barely had the chance to explore who I am.
Wolfsheim tips up my jaw, baring my throat, sniffing along my neck.
Jay.
He would be here if he could. He’s fighting somewhere in this room.
Jay—
Wolfsheim draws back and inhales, and his jaws part wider, ready for the plunge into my neck.
No no no—
Arms lock around Wolfsheim’s throat, and a blur of cinnamon curls and blue eyes appears over his shoulder.
“You get off her!” Nick roars.
Wolfsheim chokes, his eyes bulging with surprise and the pressure on his throat. With a yell, Nick tightens his arms and twists, like he’s trying to snap Wolfsheim’s neck.
The vampire releases me and reaches back with wicked claws to slash at Nick. With a scream, Nick lets go. Wolfsheim slams a fist into my cousin’s chest, and Nick flies off the platform, his head rebounding off one of the pillars before he slumps to the floor—dazed, unconscious, or…
No, Nick, no—
I can’t help him yet, but he bought me a few precious seconds—enough time for me to yank one of the combs from my hair. When Wolfsheim turns back to me, his gaze flaming with vengeful hate, I ram the tines into his eye.
He shrieks with pain, and I twist the comb deeper. He grabs my hand, half crushing my fingers, and shoves it away. With a roar of anguished rage he pins me again, claws poised to dive into my heart. But his weight isn’t on my lungs anymore, and he’s not covering my mouth. Even though my pulse thunders in my throat, I try my compulsive voice anyway, pushing through the tremulous fear.
“Submit,” I say, and Wolfsheim freezes midstrike.
One word, and in it I feel the dominant force of the billion times that word has been spoken to women like me from the mouths of false leaders like him. I know the terror of silence, and I silently praise the ancestors who passed their gift to me so I could use it in this moment.
“You will not touch me again,” I continue, soft and venomous, and he winces, recoils, fighting me. But I’m back in control, and I refuse to give up that control again. Not to him, not to anyone.
“You should never have come here. You have no right to tell anyone else how to live.” I sit up, and he shrinks, snarling, as if he wants to flee from my voice, but I continue weaving the spell, swiftly, softly, and inescapably, just for him. “You will stay, and you will listen to me. You think you’re a big, scary bad guy, don’t you? A Blood Messiah, a god or a prophet, with the power to sway others, to make everyone bow to you and your rules, when really, you are nothing but a sad, sick man in love with control. You wanted to know what I am? Well, if Jay Gatsby is the vampire king, as you called him, that would make me his queen.” My voice dips lower, a primal tether binding him to my will. “You might think you’re a wolf, but honey, I’m your alpha.”
Wolfsheim shudders over the word, straining, sweat filming his skin; but his ears are too full of my voice—he can’t break free. I lean closer and talk to him, softly, menacingly, winding long sentences around his consciousness. I pour into him all the poisonous things I ever wanted to say to Tom, all the vindictive words I’ve saved up for the friends who betrayed me, every curse for the predators with bruising fingers and bladed tongues. I can’t let him go. Can’t risk him breaking out again, becoming a threat again. He’s the worst monster in this room, the biggest danger to all of us, so I push him deeper and deeper into himself, farther from the surface, until his consciousness is a fragmented thing floating in the vast darkness of his pitiless heart.
As the rush of power fades from my body, weariness washes over me in a dizzying tide. I’m not sure when I stopped talking, but it’s all right. Instinctively I know that Wolfsheim is beyond resistance now, nothing but a hollow shell. I’m not exactly sure what I’ve done to him, but I’m not sorry. I hope it’s permanent.
It was foolish of us to hope that I could maintain control over so many vampires—especially one as old and powerful as Wolfsheim. One-on-one, though, I was more than a match for him. I think that should terrify me, but I can’t feel anything but exhaustion and a gnawing worry about the others.
I’m swaying where I sit, blinking, trying to focus on the scene behind Wolfsheim’s catatonic figure. I can’t seem to latch onto anything in the blur of movement, but I think the conflict is waning. I think we won.
Jay’s anxious, bloodied face appears in front of me, and a few of his people haul Wolfsheim off the platform and drag him away.
Jay slumps down beside me, pulling out his earplugs. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you? There’s blood—”
“It’s his, not mine.”
“Oh good.” And then he keels over, limp and unconscious. He’s bleeding heavily from three deep gashes across his abdomen and another on his thigh.
Panic stirs me out of my fog, sharpening my focus. A quick swipe of my finger over his bracelet shows his blood levels in the orange zone.
“Jay!” I cradle his head in my lap and tuck my wrist against his mouth. “Drink, Jay. Come on.”
His fangs are still out, but he makes no move to drink. His lashes form ashy smudges against his pale skin.
“Jay,” I say, low and soft. “You need to drink now.”
But my voice doesn’t work. He’s unconscious—he can’t hear me.
