“But”—she looked up at him—“that’s not what I meant.”
She fell forward, mimicking the poor singer earlier. Her face smacked against the carpeted floor. But unlike the singer, who must have been much younger since she stayed in one dead but solid piece, Zelda slowly shrank and darkened, until there was nothing left of her but a pile of clothes, a stake, and a gross stain on the carpet that would probably require professional steam cleaning to remove. Peter bent over and picked up the stake. He looked down at the stain and shook his head.
Then he took a step toward me and flicked his eyes absently at Veronique.
“She’s a hot one. I’m glad she’s not dead yet. I plan on having lots of fun with her.”
I’d slowly worked my hand into Thierry’s top drawer, praying that I’d find what I was looking for. It had to still be in there. It just had to be. If it wasn’t, I was seriously screwed. I let out a little sigh of relief as I wrapped my hands around Thierry’s gun, the one he’d given me only a few short days ago to protect myself from Quinn.
Peter came closer until he was standing on the other side of the desk. “Yeah, we all get what’s coming to us sooner or later, don’t we, darlin‘? Now it’s your turn.” His grin widened as he reached for me.
“You first.” I pointed the gun at his chest and squeezed off a shot. The sound was deafening, and the recoil sent me crashing backward against the wall.
Peter took a step backward, too, and looked down at himself. Just like the singer he’d murdered earlier, a red stain blossomed out from the center of his chest. He dropped the stake and pressed his hand against the wound, as if that would make a difference. “Sorry,” I said. I actually meant it. First his eye, now this. He really should have known just to leave me the hell alone.
“You bitch.” His voice was so surprised it was almost sad.
“Sticks and stones, Peter.”
He took another step back and then his knees gave out. He collapsed in the middle of the puddle that once was Zelda, and I heard the last breath leave his body with a hiss. With shaking hands I put the gun back in the drawer and went to Veronique’s side. She was still breathing. Thank God for that.
“Veronique.” I glanced at Peter every couple of seconds, just in case he was planning on making another appearance, but he was pretty much as dead as he was going to get.
Wooden stakes in the hearts of vampires, lead bullets in the hearts of humans—they worked every time. I swallowed hard. I’d leave the freaking out about killing somebody, no matter how much they damn well deserved it, for another time.
“Veronique,” I said again and slapped her face.
Her eyelashes fluttered open and she stared up at me. “Sarah. What happened?”
“Don’t move. You’re hurt.”
She looked down at the stake and her eyes widened.
“I’m going to have to pull it out,” I told her.
I touched the stake, but she pushed my hands away. She wrapped her own hand around the base of the wooden weapon and pulled it out of her chest in one quick, sickening motion. She didn’t even scream. She gingerly sat up on the sofa.
“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been staked”— she glanced at me wearily—“well, I’d only have about twenty cents. But still, it’s never a fun experience.”
“You’re going to be okay?” I was surprised she’d been able to remove the stake all by herself. She was one tough cookie.
“No, I’m not.” She looked down at herself. “This dress was one of a kind. I’m very upset.
Let’s shoot the hunter again, shall we?”
“You saw me shoot him? I thought you were unconscious.”
“I was, but I see him lying there with a hole in his chest. It’s obvious what happened.”
I smiled and helped her to her feet. We stepped around the mess that once was Peter and
Zelda, and I opened up the door to peek outside. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
“Maybe you should stay here,” I told her.
She shook her head. “No. Let’s go.”
We slowly made our way out to the main club area. It was mostly cleared out. The fight was over. There were a few bodies on the ground. Some vampires, a few hunters. Some were moving, some weren’t. It looked like a dimly lit, smoke-filled war zone with makeshift nurses and doctors tending to the injured.
George rushed toward us with a huge smile on his face. “You’re okay!”
“Yeah. And you, too.” I smiled back. “You stayed safely under your table?”
“No. I got out and kicked some ass. It was more fun than I thought it would be.”
“Good for you.”
“Sarah.” Quinn made his way over to join us at the bar. He was limping, and there was another cut on his forehead to match the one his father had given him earlier on his cheek.
He grabbed me and hugged me tightly. I was so glad he was okay that I almost burst into tears.
“You look like hell,” I told him.
“You look like heaven.”
I rolled my eyes. “You honestly have to start working on your pickup lines.”
He grimaced. “I don’t think I’ll be picking anything up for a while, but I’ll keep it in mind.” He glanced at Veronique. “Who are you?”
“Veronique.” She extended her hand and then winced in pain.
He took her hand but didn’t shake it. “Nice to meet a fellow battle-scarred soldier.”
She shook her head. “I’m not planning on scarring. My injury should heal up fine.”
He let go of her hand. “It was just an expression.”
Amy and Barry joined us. Barry was cut up, too, but smiling. Amy hugged me.
“Glad you’re okay,” I said to her.
“You too.”
“No hard feelings?”
“None. We’ve been friends too long. I just want you to be happy for me.”