Fury's Kiss: A Midnight's Daughter Novel by Chance Karen

Author:Chance, Karen [Chance, Karen]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781101590195
Publisher: Penguin Group
Published: 2012-10-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-six

“Oh, good. That’s…Yes,” Ray said, slumping against the wall as the shield protecting the cabinet dropped.

I felt a little light-headed, too, because there were actual weapons in the weapons case. Not a lot—somebody had been here before us—but anything was better than we had. “Get rid of it,” I told Ray, passing over the loathsome thing we’d used as a key.

“You’re inhuman,” he told me. And snatched it.

And as soon as he was out of sight around the corner, I let my head fall onto the cool, shiny metal of the cabinet for just a second. I could still vaguely feel it squirming in my palm, like its body was doing on the lobby wall. I tried to tell myself that the guard who had provided the handprint—and the hand—we’d needed would have approved. The creature that had taken him over wasn’t him, and if he’d been here, he’d have wanted us to do what was necessary to avenge him.

I knew vamps well enough to know that, even if I hadn’t known him.

But my brain kept wondering who he’d been. Or if I’d met him before. Or about how I’d feel if someone had just sawed off part of Louis-Cesare in order to fool a stupid—

I shuddered in visceral horror all over, hard.

And looked up to see Ray staring at me.

He didn’t say anything and neither did I. I just licked my lips and went back to work, because weakness right now was not fucking okay. I started searching through the cabinet looking for something better than the damned .22—why the hell did they even have a .22?—that someone else had rejected. Someone else who was probably dead, because whatever they had picked hadn’t been good enough.

And that went double for what they’d left. I grabbed a couple clips for the .45, shoving them in my pockets. And then just stood there, lusting after my favorite shotgun—a sweet, double-barreled 10-gauge loaded with three-and-a-half-inch shells. Every time I pulled the trigger, it was the equivalent to four blasts from a standard 12-gauge or a nine-second burst from a submachine gun.

It was glorious.

Only for this, I would have liked two. Or three, in case I ended up breaking one over something’s head. What I found instead was a sad little .410, all alone in the back, because nobody hunted zombies—much less freaking vampire zombies—with a rabbit gun.

Nobody except me, since there was no alternative and I was out of time.

I flung it over my shoulder, grabbed all the ammo that would fit it and turned to Ray. He’d given me the layout of the lower floors, and helped distract the guy we’d used for a key long enough for me to do what had been necessary. If I got out of here, I owed him a lot.

“Keep your head down,” I told him. “I’ll send help as soon as I’m out.”

He just stared at me. I didn’t have time to figure out what his problem was, so I just clapped him on the shoulder.

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