He nodded at me, this man in the leather vest, then turned and walked humbly back to his pew in the middle of the church. He slid inside, then sat down, blinking as he waited for whatever came next.
My heart ached with emotion. I couldn’t very well leave my post, but I watched him until he made eye contact, then offered a nod. He nodded back, two would-be foes acknowledging the virtue of the other.
Life as a vampire wasn’t always what I expected it to be.
“As is our way,” Gabriel said into the silence of the chapel, “in the pews before you are two chits. One black, one white. Black, we return home to the sanctity of the Seven Woods. White, we stay. We risk the fight—whatever fight that might be. Place your vote in the box as it’s passed. If you have a proxy, you may cast those votes, as well. Cast your ballots according to your conscience,” he said.
Jason stepped down from the platform, a wooden box in his hands. He carried it to the back of the chapel, then handed it to the last man in the last row.
It took eighteen minutes for the vote to be cast—eighteen nerve-wracking minutes, during which most every shifter in the room gave me alternatingly curious and grave looks. I had to work not to shuffle uncomfortably under the weight of their collective stares.
When the box had traversed the chapel, Jason hauled it back to the front of the room, and then the counting began. A long board, not unlike the marker for a cribbage game, was placed on the table where the box had rested. As each marble-shaped chit was pulled from the box, it was placed upon the holder.
Black, then white, then black, then three whites, then six blacks, and so on. Although my new friend had spoken eloquently, the shifters hadn’t been completely convinced. Whatever the vote, it wouldn’t be unanimous.
After a few minutes of counting, Gabriel stepped down off the platform, then beside me, moving closer to the crowd. He was symbolically rejoining them, committing to abide by their decision, whatever it might be.
Gabriel held up a closed fist. “The final chit. The deciding chit.” He opened his palm. The marble was white.
They were staying.
For a full five seconds, there was silence.
And then chaos broke out.
We’d been right, unfortunately. Although the men in the hallway might have had it in for Gabriel, they weren’t the only ones who did. And they hadn’t cared about the vote—they’d planned to affect the balance of power afterward.
The room erupted in sound as shifters began to rush the stage, ripping guns and knives from their leather as they moved. I was closest to Gabriel, so I unsheathed my sword and jumped in front of him until Ethan and Adam appeared to whisk him away and behind the podium.
Gabriel protected, Fallon, Jason, and Robin jumped down to the chapel floor. Fallon pulled dual daggers from her boots and joined me at the front. Jason and Robin tapped Jeff, then moved to the sides of the chapel to rein in the attack from the sides.
They weren’t the only ones who’d jumped to Gabe’s defense; however the shifters might have felt about the vote, the chits had been cast, and the decision had been made. The rest of them would abide by the decision. They would stay and fight.
And they would not abide traitors in their midst.
Send Christopher and Ben to the exit doors, I silently told Ethan. If this thing spills outside, someone will call the cops. We don’t need that right now.
Fallon and I shared a nod, then prepared to wield our steel.
The first wave was all bravado. A man in a leather jacket came at me with a murderous grin and a revolver.
“Oh, that’s almost too easy,” I said with a smile, and before he could snark back, I wrapped my fingers around his trigger hand and twisted upward, keeping the handgun pointed at the ceiling and out of harm’s way. I used the torque to bend his elbow, and he fell to his knees as tendon, sinew, and bone stretched to the breaking point.
When he muttered a few very unclassy epithets, I decided he’d be happier unconscious. I slipped the gun from his hand, and a low kick to the side of his head put him out of commission.
I glanced down at the raven bracelet on my wrist. It might not do much about animosity toward vamps, but it was great with the ass kicking.
The next shifter in line opted for a knife, and he was quicker than his now-sleeping friend. He used little thrusts and stabs that would have nailed me if I were a slower vampire. But I was fast, and I could dodge them, and he wasn’t the most creative of fighters. Unfortunately for him, he used the same little thrusts and stabs over and over again. Disarming him was a cinch, and I put him out with a knee to the chest that knocked the wind right out of him.
I glanced over and found Fallon eyeing me with amusement. “I like you,” she said, her own pile of bloodied shifters at her feet. “You’re very tidy.”
I grinned back. “I do hate a mess.”
While we had a second, I glanced around to take in the rest of the action. There were Keenes posted at the back and side chapel doors to keep the melee contained. Jason and Robin stood in the wings, fighting back their own bands of angry shifters. Robin’s lack of sight clearly didn’t impact his ability to kick ass.
About one-third of the congregation was still seated; the other two-thirds were fighting one another in whatever snug space they could find.
“Quite a conference,” I muttered, then positioned my body for round two.
The second wave of attackers had seen us best the first wave, so their faces weren’t nearly as confident. But they bore the grim, determined expressions of believers—they didn’t care if they won or not; this fight was about principle. They were also smarter fighters; they’d waited to see the infantry move, and they knew how we fought.
At least I got to use my sword for this round.
The first shifter was a woman, a petite thing with permed hair and curvy, Gothic daggers in her hands. She was nimble with her steel and good at defending my slashes. But she didn’t strike out; her moves were all defensive. That meant—at least I assumed—that she’d tire out before I did.
But there was no sense in delaying the inevitable.
When she nicked me on the forearm, I put the final plan in motion. I slashed forward, rearranging our positions so that she stood a few feet in front of the first pew, her back to the seat. A sideways kick to her torso threw her back against the bench. She hit the pew and slumped, hitting the ground, still upright, head forward as if in midnap.
“Behind you!” Fallon yelled. I dropped down and heard the whoosh of a kick fly over my head. I rolled and kicked both legs out toward the shifter behind me.
I wasn’t close enough for a full-contact shot, so he stumbled backward before regaining his balance and coming at me again.
Fallon, finished with her cluster of traitors, used one hand to tuck long curls behind her ear, then delicately stuck out a booted foot. The man tripped and went sprawling, arms pin-wheeling as he hit the ground. Fallon nudged him on his back, then put a boot on his neck until he passed out from lack of oxygen. Hands on her hips, she glanced up at me.
“I appreciate the help,” I told her.
“Anytime. You’re good.”
“So are you,” I said, with a smile, thinking Jeff definitely had his hands full.
The sanctuary was a mess. A couple of pews were broken. Candles were overturned, spilling wax onto the floor, and there were bullet holes in the marble columns. The violent shifters had been hauled into mostly unconscious piles, ready for their punishments.
I wiped down my katana with the edge of my tank, then slid it back into its scabbard. It deserved a better cleaning, but that would have to wait until we were safe at home again.
I scanned the crowd and found Jeff and Fallon in a corner. They chatted, their bodies close, their body language speaking of mutual concern . . . and mutual interest. Jeff looked up and over.
“You okay?” I mouthed.
He gave me a thumbs-up before turning back to Fallon. I’d all but lost him, I thought with a grin. But who better to keep Jeff busy—and smiling—than the gorgeous, dagger-wielding heir to the North American Central Pack?
Jeff secure, I moved back to the podium to check in with the bodyguards.
Ethan, Adam, and Gabriel sat in the choir stalls. Ethan met my gaze and nodded—an employer satisfied with the effort of his employee.
Unfortunately, this time it was Gabriel who’d taken a hit—a shot in his left bicep. Adam attended to it, wrapping what looked like an altar cloth around the wound to staunch the bleeding. Gabriel glanced up at me. “So,” he said, a hint of a smile at his lips, “I guess we’re staying.”