But it was too late for the male who was attacked. Before John could squeeze off a round of the Brotherhood’s sacred bullets, the shadow entity lashed out at a guest, piercing him through the chest, the male’s screams bloodcurdling until they were cut off by a throat slash.

Blood flew from an open artery in the aristocrat’s neck, the arc as graceful as the violence was terrible.

John set his position, leveled his gun … and squeezed off two rounds as soon as he got a clear shot. But that was all he could do. In the panic typical of laypeople, the party guests fell into a disorganized scramble, tripping over gowns, over each other, running in all directions like the spooked sheep they were.

He’d hit the entity at least once, though: Its high-pitched squeal cut through even the yelling and the pounding of feet.

And then the shadow turned on him.

As the crowd scattered away, John smiled. And pulled his trigger again. Two more times. A sixth—

With each bullet, the shadow was forced back, the slugs of lead that were treated with holy water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain driving the entity into a retreat. Even as fins licked out of its translucent black core, and those knives flew around, John was too dominant as he pursued the thing.

Smaller. The outer edges of the shadow were shrinking in, its size diminishing. And fortunately, the crowd and the other fighters were staying out of range, so he had the room he needed to finish the damn thing off.

John kicked out the clip he’d emptied. Slammed in a new one.

He was careful not to get too close.

He had no intention of getting stung—

“John! Watch out!”

Before he could look in the direction of the voice, a massive body tackled him, throwing him off his shitkickers. He kept shooting even as he headed for the floor, focusing only on his target. Just before he slammed into the carpet, the shadow became lit from the inside, an evil glow emanating from the center of its bulbous form. In the blink of an eye, that glow rippled outward—

John hit the floor with Murhder on top of him, the breath exploding out of his lungs … at the same time the shadow blew apart, a black wash, part tar, part congealed blood, spackling the previously perfect wall behind it as well as the rug, a painting, a sofa.

It was like sewer sludge had been blown out of a cannon.

John could only stare at the spectacle. And it was as his brain replayed frame by frame what had gone down that he recalled seeing another shadow coming at him from the side.

Murhder had undoubtedly saved his life.

For the second time.

Standing on the far side of the parlor, next to the guns and knives he had discreetly stashed in a bookcase, Throe had been ready to arm himself to defend his guests against the “threat.” But just as he was about to reach for the weapons, he heard the sound of breaking glass—at the exact moment one of his shadows attacked Altamere.

He could not comprehend what had shattered and why such a thing would occur.

And then it was all too clear.

His plan, to be the “defender” of the aristocrats in the face of the shadows, to be the one to save these useless members of the glymera so they would back him, to set the stage for an overthrow of the King after the Brotherhood had not rescued their targeted sons, was utterly shattered—just like the glass of the windows the Brothers and fighters broke through to jump into the room from the outside.

Throe hit the ground so he didn’t get struck by the cross fire, and he watched with stunned disbelief as the Brotherhood took over the attack, protecting the civilians, engaging the shadows … saving lives.

Throe didn’t stick around for more than a minute.

Scrambling across the carpet on his belly, he pushed with his slippery tuxedo shoes and dragged himself forward with his bare palms to go around the corner and get away from the chaos. As soon as he was in the foyer, he jumped up into a crouch, put his arms over his head, and ran for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, the gunfire, the screams, the squeals, receded some as he made it to the second story.

When he got to the master bedroom, he took out his key. Vampires could unlock anything but copper with their minds which was why the master of the house had made sure his suite was properly protected.

Throe dropped his keys. Fumbled them again—

Finally, he was through the door and he wheeled around to slam the heavy oak panels shut with his palms—

Throe froze as a strange breeze brushed over his hair.

A breeze that had a pull to it.

As his instincts pricked in alarm, a nauseous fear goosebumped his skin and his breath got short.

Don’t look behind yourself, a voice deep inside his head ordered him. Get out of here, now!

Throe didn’t waste a heartbeat. He didn’t care what was on the other side, he grabbed for the doorknob—

“Ow!” Retracting his palm, he shook out a sensation of burning. “What the hell?”

Ripping off his tuxedo jacket, he wrapped his hand up and—

A hollow moaning sound rippled through the room, and the lights flickered. And even though he knew he should not look, should never look, he found his head cranking to the side.

When he saw what was behind him, Throe screamed.

Murhder didn’t jump off of John, even though he knew damn well he was crushing the male. With this many guns being discharged? You made any quick vertical moves and you lost your fucking head.

Bullets whistled by, taking out lamps, turning oil paintings to sieves, blowing up porcelain bowls and gold-speckled plates. Grabbing John by the shoulder, he rolled the two of them out of the way, taking cover behind a sofa the color of a buttercup.

Jesus, it was like Die Hard only shot in a museum instead of a high-rise. And what the fuck were those shadow things?

Murhder took aim at the nearest one, which was lashing out at Rhage, and as he pulled the trigger on a gun for the first time in twenty years, his aim was really fucking bad. He ended up drilling a crystal sconce to the left of the fireplace, the lightbulbs exploding into sparks as they vaporized.

He didn’t make that mistake twice.

Finding a groove, he squeezed off multiple rounds, and thus gave Rhage the chance to rescue two females who were holding each other and cowering behind a silk armchair. With the brother as protection, they ran off, high heels twisting ankles, their gowns held up to their waists, their once-neat chignons now birds’ nests full of tangles.

John swung his own muzzle around, and doubled down on the shadow that Murhder was working on, discharging his own bullets—

There was an unholy squeal, a sound higher than a piccolo’s best note and louder than a jet engine. And then the entity blew apart like the first one had, oily mud flying out and hitting the mantelpiece as well as what was left of the window Murhder had broken with his own body.

It was like someone slinging fresh cow flops around.

Two more to go.

Except …

The remaining shadows weren’t attacking anything. The entities were side by side and stationary in the archway of the darkened study beyond, like smog balloons tethered to a fixed point in the floor.

He and John leveled muzzles on their direction.

Nobody moved: Not them. Not their targets.

That was not true elsewhere in the house. The other brothers and fighters were rushing to get the guests to secured locations, all kinds of shuffling feet, hushed voices full of fear, and barked orders radiating into the parlor from a distance.