Enthrallment.

The specialty of death vampires.

She closed her eyes and fought the strange pulsing sense of peace that flowed over her, that made her legs and arms feel limp and useless, that spilled euphoria over her mind.

She drew upon her new power, reaching deep into the gold stream of obsidian flame. The power flowed up and up, covering her, flooding her thoughts, pushing all that false ease out of her head. She opened her eyes and the death vampires were … just men.

Very nice, Casimir sent. “I’m impressed.” He released her arms and moved to stand beside Rith.

Fiona settled her gaze on the man who had been her captor for so many decades, who had essentially killed hundreds of women to acquire dying blood. She forgot about Casimir and about the death vampires, even though the latter moved to create a semicircle around her, one on each side. All she could see was Rith, and the long list of women who had died in his Burma blood slave facility.

She felt her power begin to build deep within, a faint rumbling in her soul. She wanted this man dead more than anything in the world. She wanted him to pay for what he’d done and she wanted him incapable of enslaving any more women.

His eyes flared and he took a step back.

“Are you afraid of obsidian flame?” Casimir asked. “You needn’t be. She’s young in her power. She doesn’t yet know what she can do. She may never know. It happens with this particular variety.”

“She’s glowing.”

“Yes, she is.”

Fiona hardly heard this exchange. All she could think was that Rith was here and if she could just channel the right kind of power, she could take him down right now.

Her mind flew, picking up ideas and casting them aside. Her instincts spread to encompass all four vampires. She couldn’t physically overpower any of them; nor did she have the power to blast her way out. She couldn’t fold out of the cavern and, most important, she knew she would be unable to contact Jean-Pierre or Seriffe or even Endelle—she could sense the shield that Casimir had placed around this location.

But as her intention of doing harm to Rith became more and more focused, her power sharpened and she knew there was one entity she could contact, nothing could prevent her, not Casimir’s Fourth ability, nothing.

There was just one problem.

She shifted her gaze to Casimir and saw the determined light in his eye. He had no intention of letting her live.

He glanced at the death vampire to his right and said, “Do it.”

Fiona’s life flashed before her eyes as swords appeared in the hands of each of the death vampires; she saw Boston, Burma, Carolyn and her children, and finally, Jean-Pierre. Time did a slow dance as sharp thirty-inch swords arced in the air.

Her time had come.

Except … Jean-Pierre’s beautiful smile suddenly rose in her mind. Like hell she was ready to just accept her death. From deep within the rumbling came that golden rush of obsidian power that flowed within her until a wave burst from her in all directions and all four vampires flew back, away from her, hitting various parts of the cavern’s stone hard.

She turned, as if to run, but all she met was another stone wall not ten feet from her. Whirling back, she thought maybe the breach on the other side could lead somewhere, but her enemy wasn’t dead, wasn’t even unconscious.

Each vampire slowly began to recover and to rise. She didn’t exactly understand what she had just done, but her power wasn’t lethal, which went to the larger conundrum: She could channel but not produce.

Worse, she might have held death at bay for this first round, but she could tell her power had weakened. Exactly how many waves like that could she release to protect herself? And what the hell was she supposed to do now?

She needed help, but could she bypass the shield around the place?

* * *

Jean-Pierre had been in this place before, five months ago in the back bedroom of the farmhouse in Toulouse. He had seen Rith with Fiona in his arms, he had watched them vanish and had cast himself into nether-space, following the gold glitter of Fiona’s trace, only to be thrown back again and again. Rith had blocked her trace then as her trace was blocked even now and he could not follow after her to save her.

How had Rith, if it was Rith, gotten past the security system?

But he tried, repeatedly, to throw himself against what was essentially a preternatural brick wall. He slammed against the block in the trace over and over, but to no avail.

How had this happened? Why was he back where he had started?

When on the twelfth attempt he landed on his back, at the foot of the grid, the wind knocked out of him, he ceased the futile effort. He could not breathe and his body trembled.

Seriffe squatted beside him, his dark eyes haunted. At least the alarm had stopped shrieking through the building. “We’ll find her, Jean-Pierre. If we have to storm the gates of hell, we’ll find her.”

Jean-Pierre opened his mouth wide but could not bring air into his lungs.

“Just relax. This will pass in a few more seconds.”

He nodded.

This will pass. What will pass? His world on edge perpetually? His greatest fear realized over and over again, that his woman would be taken because the enemy grew stronger and more devious with each new sunrise?

Finally, air eased into his lungs and he sat up. “Do we have any idea where she has gone? Where she has been taken?”

Seriffe shook his head. He looked wrecked—and why wouldn’t he? Last night he had lost another man, a good man, and now Fiona was taken straight from his HQ. How the hell were any of them to be safe?

“Fuck,” Seriffe said. He rose then extended a hand to Jean-Pierre.

He took it and let the man pull him to his feet. “The trace was blocked.”

“Yeah. We all got that. What do we do now? Do you have a link with her? Can you contact her? If we can get her position, we can send a goddam army after her.”

Jean-Pierre, still weakened from attempting the impossible, turned into the grid and leaned his forearms on the wide side railing. “I will try,” he said. He closed his eyes and focused on Fiona, on her lovely face, her silver-blue eyes, her long elegant chestnut hair.

He worked hard at conjuring her image, creating a portrait of her in his mind, and reaching out, casting a wide net, into telepathic space and hunting for her.

But she could not be found.

He tried and tried, but no answering voice returned to invade his mind. Just silence; the worst sound in the world.

* * *

Marguerite paced her cell. Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, but like hell she was going to take any of the food placed before her by a zombie-like servant. At least the servant had taken the piss-pot with her.

Still, she chewed on one of her nails, just to ease the gnawing sensation in her stomach.

She was debating whether to start on the thumbnail of her left hand when she felt Fiona’s presence right up beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder, hip-to-hip. She could tell that the woman’s powers had expanded since the last time they’d communicated, which was only a day ago, at the most. Wow.

What’s cookin’, Fee? she sent. And how come I can communicate with you, but I can’t reach Thorne or Grace or anyone else?

Uh, I’ve got a little problem and I need your help.

I don’t like to spoil your buzz, but I’m incarcerated now in the Superstitions.

I know. But I just got abducted by the Upper ascender, Casimir, and he’s got two death vampires ready to attack … again. To top it off, that bastard Rith is here, smiling at me. I can’t reach anyone but you so I thought maybe we could try out some of our shared power.

Holy fuck.

Marguerite processed all that Fiona had just said to her. She blinked. Shit, if she couldn’t help Fiona right now, the woman was dead.

You mean our flame gift?

So you know about that?

Yep.

Thank God.

What do you have in mind? I can’t see how I can possibly help you.

My gift is channeling. Have you got anything I can channel to escape these losers?

Have you tried just folding the hell out of there?

Uh, I can’t.

What do you mean you can’t?

I can only fold from room to room and I don’t know where this is or where to go from here. Oh, God. In fact, I’m really short on most powers. I can only channel powers. And there’s one more issue, but it might not be a hindrance; Casimir has a shield around the place, which is why I couldn’t reach anyone else. So I’m hoping this will work.

Okay. She put her hands on her hips. I can fold. You want to try channeling a fold?

Absolutely. But make it fast because they’re coming at me again.

Chill, Fee. We can do this. Just tell me how it works.

* * *

Fiona’s heart beat like a jackhammer. All four vampires were on their feet.

To Marguerite, she sent, You feel me next to you, right?

Right.

In as few words as possible, she told Marguerite what her previous experiences had been like with Alison and Jean-Pierre.

Got it. Let’s do it.

Fiona kept backing up, since both death vampires had gained their feet and looked really pissed off. At the same time, she remained focused on Marguerite, on the level of power that had begun vibrating between the two women.

I’m holding in my mind that I want to fold, Marguerite sent. Can you feel it?

Yes. Oh, God. We gotta do this now. I think Rith is winding up for a hand-blast.

Picture where you want to go, Fee.

Fiona released her fears and pictured the landing platform at Militia HQ. She closed her eyes and—what do you know, the glide began. She sped through nether-space, relief hitting her like a flash flood during a monsoon storm.

The next moment, she was staring at five Militia Warriors, all with swords drawn. “It’s just me,” she cried. “But we might have incoming.”

One of the Militia Warriors blurred toward her, caught her arm, then pulled her behind him.

She moved toward the back wall then waited. The warriors all stood, facing the platform, swords still drawn, bodies hunched.

Seconds passed.