“You know what they are? They’re rapists. They control someone, tear them open and stick themselves in while someone else is forced to take it.” Something glistened at the corner of Paige’s eye, but was swallowed up as she narrowed her vision until she was glaring out at him and the rest of the world through slits. “When that spore gets inside someone that wants it, it makes them into something different than what they were. It makes them hungry and vile. When it wraps around the heart of someone who doesn’t want it, it keeps raping them from the inside out until their soul has no choice but to give in and just let it happen.”
She practically kicked her door open and joined Rico on the sidewalk. They were parked near an eight-story building on a corner where the structures were geared more toward business than pleasure. Straight lines, striated levels of color, and simple planters holding little bits of greenery were the norm. To the north, neon light spilled onto the sidewalks and loud music blended with voices that struggled to be heard over it. The hour was late, but not nearly late enough for the streets to be empty. There was a chill in the air that Cole could barely even feel on the parts of him that weren’t wrapped up in the new coat. His thoughts had been divided across too many fronts, but Paige had done a good job of narrowing them to a few cognitive avenues that were less friendly than the grittiest of Chicago’s alleyways.
Since the dancer who’d loaned them the car didn’t seem worried about getting it back, Rico didn’t spend much time getting it situated before joining them on the sidewalk. He tucked away a sawed-off shotgun in a harness that hung under the opposite arm from his trusty Sig Sauer and draped his leather jacket over the rig. The end of the shotgun barrel hung down below the laced side of the jacket, so he let that arm hang down to cover it. “Shit,” he growled as his cell phone chirped from another pocket. He grabbed it as though he meant to crush it in his callused paw of a hand, but flipped it open instead. “It’s Prophet.”
Paige strode up Rush Street, glaring at nearby pedestrians with a set of eyes that were sharper than any weapon at her disposal. Anyone who happened to look at the Skinners quickly looked away. “We’re not going in there to bargain with anyone or make threats, Cole.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured.”
“Every Nymar in that place will come at us. Steph must know we weren’t killed in that fire, so she’ll want to finish the job.”
“There were cameras around the perimeter of the Blood Parlor last time we were here,” Cole pointed out. “They may have seen us already.”
“Then let’s get in there.”
“All righty,” Rico said as he snapped his phone shut and pocketed it. “Prophet’s still with the Amriany. He says they’re following Bobby to San Antonio.”
“You think the Amriany are working with Bobby and Paul and those others?”
“Either that,” Rico said, “or those Gypsies are tracking them just like we are.”
Paige bent slightly at the waist and plucked the metaledged baton from its holster. “When we’re done here, if we don’t find any other leads, we’ll catch up with Prophet.”
“You mean if we get done here,” Cole said.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
There was no way Cole was going to talk her down and no good reason to try. Stephanie’s Blood Parlor was less than half a block away, located above a bar that made halfhearted attempts to cater to at least half a dozen consumer groups. Even from a distance he could make out the glow of televisions broadcasting basketball games, beer signs both foreign and domestic, video games, and the pulsing strobe lights of a tricked-out jukebox. The building’s architecture had a medieval feel, with a large pointed roof and elevated rounded corners done up to look like miniature castle towers pointing toward a starry Chicago sky. In front, faded bricks loomed over a striped awning as suited to concentrating the glow of the first floor’s neon as to shielding the second floor from prying eyes.
As the Skinners drew closer, people streamed out of the building. They moved in an orderly fashion at first, conversing with each other, lifting phones to their ears and hailing cabs. Cole was glad to see the customers leave, until one of them stepped away from the neon and tendrils widened on his face until they became thicker than tiger stripes.
“They’re here!” he warned.
Paige broke into a run while tightening her right hand around the grip of her weapon. Ever since that arm had been injured, the best form she could manage was a sloppily crafted machete. The curved section of the wooden baton creaked as it flowed outward and flattened until it was the same width as the sharpened strip that had been treated with the new varnish. By the time she closed the gap between herself and the front door of the bar, the machete’s metallic edge sliced through the air and hacked no fewer than five inches down through the shoulder of the first Nymar to present himself as a target. If not for his quick sidestep, she would have cleaved through the top of his head down to his eyebrows.
Most of the crowd panicked and scattered like a flock of birds flushed from a bush. The four that remained came at Rico and Cole with ultraquick steps or leapt to collide with them amid a flurry of scraping black claws. All four of the newly revealed Nymar were marked by the thick tendrils Cole had seen on the one in Lancroft’s dungeon. Unlike the creature that had been left on that floor to die, these spore were alive and well within their hosts, and it was clear they provided more than simple camouflage on a shadowy night. As the stripes widened, the Nymar became stronger and faster. Cole could feel the impact of their fists and forearms even as he blocked them with his spear. As far as that was concerned, he’d barely been quick enough to draw the weapon before the first Nymar was upon him.
Rico’s Sig Sauer thumped once, its powerful blast muffled by the body of the Nymar in front of him. A hole erupted from the vampire’s back and was quickly closed by ribbonlike tendrils. Without pausing to acknowledge the slightest bit of discomfort from the gunshot wound, that Nymar pulled back one clawed hand and drove the sharp talons straight down into Rico’s shoulder.
Where anyone else might have panicked, Rico wrapped his free arm around the Nymar’s torso. That way, when he reached the front of the Blood Parlor, his momentum drove the Nymar through the thick glass of the front door and carried him inside.
On the street, people had divided into two camps. The first group stopped to see what was happening after retreating a safe distance, and the second group was intent on putting the Blood Parlor behind them whether they had a car or just a pair of frantic feet to make it happen. What surprised Cole most when he got a chance to notice the crowds from the corner of his eye was the fact that more of them seemed frightened by the spear in his hands than the gun in Rico’s. Welcome to Chicago.
The coat held up better than expected when a Nymar scratched and scraped at it as if she didn’t quite know how to use the claws that stretched out from her fingers. Having been through more than his share of ineffectual sparring sessions, Cole recognized inexperience well enough. He twisted the spear sideways and used it as a crowbar to lever the Nymar off him before she started doing any real damage. As soon as she was pried loose, he used the metallic tip to open a gash straight across the upper edge of her breastbone. When she fell, Cole swapped the spear for his .45 and fired two shots into her heart.
She was still reaching up for him when the convulsions started, but the antidote on the bullets had no reaction to her spore. She bared all three sets of fangs in a feral warning gesture as Cole descended to drive his spear into her chest. His aim was true, and soon all of her muscles strained to prolong the inevitable. Cole was getting used to the sight of it, which was the hardest thing for him to accept. Even so, he moved on.