Nikolaos let Zachary drop to the floor and turned, face bloodstained, the front of her pink dress crimson. Blood spattered on her white leotards. Zachary's throat was torn out. He lay gasping on the floor but still moving, alive.

She stared at Burchard's body, then screamed, a wild banshee sound that wailed and echoed. She rushed me, hands outstretched. I threw the knife, and she batted it away. She hit me, the force of her body slamming me into the floor, her scrambling on top of me. She was still screaming, over and over. She held my head to one side. No mind tricks, brute strength.

I screamed, “Nooo!”

A gun fired, and Nikolaos jerked, once, twice. She rose off me, and I felt the wind. It was creeping through the room like the beginnings of a storm.

Edward leaned against the wall, holding Zachary's dropped gun.

Nikolaos went for him, and he emptied the gun into her frail body. She didn't even hesitate.

I sat up and watched her stalk towards Edward. He threw the empty gun at her. She was suddenly on him, forcing him back into the floor.

The sword lay on the floor, nearly as tall as I was. I drew it out of its sheath. Heavy, awkward, drawing my arm down. I raised it over my head, flat of the blade half resting on my shoulder, and ran for Nikolaos.

She was talking again in a high, sing-song voice. “I will make you mine, mortal. Mine!”

Edward screamed. I couldn't see why. I raised the sword, and its weight carried it down and across, like it was meant to. It bit into her neck with a great wet thunk. The sword grated on bone, and I drew it out. The tip fell to scrape on the floor.

Nikolaos turned to me and started to stand. I raised the sword, and it cut outward, swinging my body with it. Bone cracked, and I fell to the floor as Nikolaos tumbled to her knees. Her head still hung by strips of meat and skin. She blinked at me and tried to stand up.

I screamed and drove the blade upward with everything I had. It took her between the breasts, and I stood running with it, shoving it in. Blood poured. I pinned her against the wall. The blade shoved out her back, scraping along the wall as she slid downward.

I dropped to my knees beside the body. Yes, the body. She was dead!

I looked back at Edward. There was blood on his neck. “She bit me,” he said.

I was gasping for air, having trouble breathing, but it was wonderful. I was alive and she wasn't. She fucking wasn't. “Don't worry, Edward, I'll help you. Plenty of Holy Water left.” I smiled.

He stared at me a minute, then laughed, and I laughed with him. We were still laughing when the wererats crept in from the tunnel. Rafael, the Rat King, stared at the carnage with black-button eyes. “She is dead.”

“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” I said.

Edward picked it up, half-singing, “The wicked old witch.”

We collapsed into laughter again, and Lillian the doctor, all covered with fur, tended our hurts, Edward first.

Zachary was still lying on the ground. The wound at his throat was beginning to close up, skin knitting together. He would live, if that was the right word.

I picked my knife up off the floor and staggered to him. The rats watched me. No one interfered. I dropped to my knees beside him and ripped the sleeve of his shirt. I laid the gris-gris bare. He still couldn't talk but his eyes widened.

“Remember when I tried to touch this with my own blood? You stopped me. You seemed afraid, and I didn't understand why.” I sat beside him and watched him heal. “Every gris-gris has a thing you must do for it, vampire blood for this one, and one thing you must never do, or the magic stops. Poof.” I held up my arm, dripping blood quite nicely. “Human blood, Zachary; is that bad?”

He managed a noise like, “Don't.”

Blood dripped down my elbow and hung, thick and trembling over his arm. He sort of shook his head, no, no. The blood dripped down and splatted on his arm, but it didn't touch the gris-gris.

His whole body relaxed.

“I've got no patience today, Zachary.” I rubbed blood along the woven band.

His eyes flared, showing white. He made a strangling noise in his throat. His hands scrabbled at the floor. His chest jerked as if he couldn't breathe. A sigh ran out of his body, a long whoosh of breath, and he was quiet.

I checked for a pulse; nothing. I cut the gris-gris off with my knife, balled it in my hand, and shoved it in my pocket. Evil piece of work.

Lillian came to bind my arm up. “This is just temporary. You'll, need stitches.”

I nodded and got to my feet.

Edward called, “Where are you going?”

“To get the rest of our guns.” To find Jean-Claude. I didn't say that part out loud. I didn't think Edward would understand.

Two of the ratmen went with me. That was fine. They could come as long as they didn't interfere. Phillip was still huddled in, the corner. I left him there.

I did get the guns. I strung the machine gun over my shoulders and kept the shotgun in my hands. Loaded for bear. I had killed a one-thousand-year-old vampire. Naw, not me. Surely not.

The ratmen and I found the punishment room. There were six coffins in it. Each had a blessed cross on its lid and silver chains to hold the lid down. The third coffin held Willie, so deeply asleep that he seemed like he would never wake. I left him like that, to wake with the night. To go on about his business. Willie wasn't a bad person. And for a vampire he was excellent.

All the other coffins were empty, only the last one still unopened … I undid the chains and laid the cross on the ground. Jean-Claude stared up at me. His eyes were midnight fire, his smile gentle. I flashed on the first dream and the coffin filled with blood, him reaching for me. I stepped back, and he rose from the coffin.

The ratmen stepped back, hissing.

“It's all right,” I said. “He's sort of on our side.”

He stepped from the coffin like he'd had a good nap. He smiled and extended a hand. “I knew you would do it, ma petite.”

“You arrogant son of a bitch.” I smashed the shotgun butt into his stomach. He doubled over just enough. I hit him in the jaw. He rocked back. “Get out of my mind!”

He rubbed his face and came away with blood. “The marks are permanent, Anita. I cannot take them back.”

I gripped the shotgun until my hands ached. Blood began to trickle down my arm from the wound. I thought about it. For one moment, I considered blowing his perfect face away. I didn't do it. I would probably regret it later.

“Can you stay out of my dreams, at least?” I asked.

“That, I can do. I am sorry, ma petite.”

“Stop calling me that.”

He shrugged. His black hair had nearly crimson highlights in the torchlight. Breathtaking. “Stop playing with my mind, Jean-Claude.”

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked.

“I know that the otherworldly beauty is a trick. So stop it.”

“I am not doing it,” he said.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“When you have the answer, Anita, come back to me, and we will talk.”

I was too tired for riddles. “Who do you think you are? Using people like this.”

“I am the new master of the city,” he said. He was suddenly next to me, fingers touching my cheek. “And you put me upon the throne.”

I jerked away from him. “You stay away from me for a while, Jean-Claude, or I swear …”

“You'll kill me?” he said. He was smiling, laughing at me.

I didn't shoot him. And some people say I have no sense of humor.

I found a room with a dirt floor and several shallow graves. Phillip let me lead him to the room. It was only when we stood staring down at the fresh-turned earth that he turned to me. “Anita?”

“Hush,” I said.

“Anita, what's happening?”

He was beginning to remember. He would become more alive in a few hours, up to a point. It would almost be the real Phillip for a day, or two.

“Anita?” His voice was high and uncertain. A little boy afraid of the dark. He grabbed my arm, and his hand felt very real. His eyes were still that perfect brown. “What's going on?”

I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. His skin was warm. “You need to rest, Phillip. You're tired.”

He nodded. “Tired,” he said.

I led him to the soft dirt. He lay down on it, then sat up, eyes wild, grabbing for me. “Aubrey! He …”

“Aubrey's dead. He can't hurt you anymore.”

“Dead?” He stared down the length of his body as if just seeing it. “Aubrey killed me.”

I nodded. “Yes, Phillip.”

“I'm scared.”

I held him, rubbing his back in smooth, useless circles. His arms hugged me like he would never let go.

“Anita!”

“Hush, hush. It's all right. It's all right.”

“You're going to put me back, aren't you?” He drew back so he could see my face.

“Yes,” I said.

“I don't want to die.”

“You're already dead.”

He stared down at his hands, flexing them. “Dead?” he whispered. “Dead?” He lay down on the fresh-turned earth. “Put me back,” he said.

And I did.

At the end his eyes closed and his face went slack, dead. He sank into the grave and was gone.

I dropped to my knees beside Phillip's grave, and wept.