"If you're clever, there are ways around almost any problem." She glanced at the combatants. "We'll see what can't be changed!”

The other ball had become tangled in my skirts, but a kick from her started it rolling slowly across the floor toward the fight. I finally got a grip on her by grabbing a handful of hair, but although it must have hurt, she was smiling, her eyes following the black orb like it carried the secret to all her dreams. Considering that her dreams involved mayhem and death, and that she'd probably gotten that thing from her good buddy Rasputin, I decided that it would be very bad if it succeeded in crossing the stage.

It was just like my vision—Mircea covered in blood, fighting for his life, and someone tossing a weapon at him from the shadows. I knew what came next, but with Myra fighting me every inch of the way, I couldn't reach the ball in time to stop it. I dropped her in a heap and ran after her little contraption.

I hadn't gotten two steps before she tackled me, and it was like trying to get away from an enraged octopus— everywhere I moved, she seemed to be there first. Normally, Augusta would have been able to stow her under one arm and run with her or simply knock her unconscious. But the first idea would slow me down and the second was out because I didn't know Augusta's strength well enough to risk it.

Half walking, half crawling, I moved slowly toward the ball, but it was taking too much time. I caught sight of a flash of blue out of the corner of my eye and didn't hesitate. "She's going to destroy the theatre!" I screamed, pointing at Myra.

Myra looked at me like I was mad, but the theatre ghosts heard me just fine. The woman's face had already been screwed into a vicious snarl, watching the mess being made on her beloved stage, and now she had someone to blame. She threw the severed head, which was suddenly looking a lot less jolly, straight at Myra. When they merged, Myra gave a shriek and started convulsing. I shoved her away from me just as the woman joined her tiny partner. A whirlwind started up that left me unable to see more than a thrashing tornado of white and blue.

This was no mere mugging—the ghosts had obviously given all the warnings they intended and had gotten down to business. A living person should have been stronger than they were, but it was two against one and they were on ground that had held generations of the bodies of their ancestors. That's like an extra battery pack for a ghost, something Myra must have figured out. She screamed as they dove for her again, half in fear and half in rage, and vanished.

I lunged after the ball, but a vamp got in my way. I threw Myra's stake at him, more as a diversion than anything else, my aim being what it is. Apparently, Augusta's was better, because it connected.

A very pale and shaky-looking Stoker lurched out of the wings, staggering toward the ball as fast as his unsteady legs would carry him. It wasn't fast enough. The small sphere had reached the fight and rolled under the feet of the two combatants, who were now fighting against a circle of Senate members. It was getting pushed about as they shuffled and jockeyed for position, going first one way and then the other. The look of abject terror on Stoker's face was enough to make me run full-out after it.

I arrived just in time to get hit in the face by a sandbag on a rope that had fallen from the rafters. It was one of four that were swinging around, being dodged easily by most vamps, except the one who hadn't been paying attention. It had to have weighed fifty pounds, and had got up a lot of momentum on its arc. By the time I noticed it, there was no time to do anything but take it. It knocked me off my feet and I went skidding on my back for several yards.

"Dislocator!" Stoker had collapsed onto the stage, and unfortunately it was on his stomach. He screamed, but it was the same odd word, over and over.

I scrambled back up as the duelists paused, looking down at the small sphere at their feet. Everyone froze for half a second. Then the Senators melted away, flowing out of the theatre as quickly as they'd come into it, Mircea grabbed Billy and jumped straight up to the rafters, and Dracula ran towards us after snatching up Stoker. Pritkin threw an arm around my waist and took a flying leap off the stage. We landed in the orchestra pit, and because he'd rolled us at the last minute, he took the brunt of the impact.

It knocked him out and rattled my teeth, and the next second, a wave of power shot over our heads from stage level. The bomb must have found something to connect with, maybe some of the fallen vamps. If so, I didn't think they'd be getting up again. The impact had felt nothing like a null bomb. It was darker and almost greasy, and in no way would ever be mistaken for a defensive weapon.

I raised my head to find that I was almost nose to nose with Dracula. He looked strangely pleased to see me; then I was staring at the knife hilt sticking out of my chest, right between the third and fourth ribs. It hurt, but not like I would have expected. There was no bright, searing pain, and very little blood. That might have been because Augusta hadn't fed recently or because the bastard had missed her heart by a fraction of an inch.

Vlad was preparing to take off her head, why I couldn't imagine. Maybe because she was helping Mircea? Maybe because he was a nut? Who knew? But he was taking his time about unsheathing the long knife at his side. The one he'd used on me was one of Pritkin's—he must have pulled it out of his own flesh—but this one looked like an old family weapon, with a heavy, inlaid grip and a fine, polished blade. Too bad he wouldn't get a chance to use it.

"Billy, you're about to have company!" My yell echoed off the theatre walls. "Get down here.”

"You have caused me a great deal of trouble," Dracula was telling me as my body tore towards us across the stage. 'I will enjoy this.”

"I doubt it," I said, and shifted.

A very confusing split second later, I ended up almost running off the stage. Billy screamed in my head and I stopped, balancing on the very edge. It gave me a perfect view of Dracula getting acquainted with Senate member Augusta. He should have decapitated her without the fanfare while he had the chance. As it was, she was more than happy to give a demonstration of exactly how she'd gotten onto the Senate in the first place. What she lacked in fighting skill she made up for in ruthlessness and utter practicality. She tore Pritkin's knife out of her chest, ignoring the splitting, fleshy sound it made, and stabbed it into Dracula's while he was still gloating over his kill.

Unlike him, she didn't miss.

I saw the shock on his face as the heart was pierced, and heard the sound of metal splitting wood when the knife hit the floor below. She sank it deeply enough to trap him like a bug on a pin, then snatched off the arm from one of the first-row seats nearby, using his heirloom to carve the end into a nice, jagged point. The metal weapon wouldn't kill him, although it didn't seem to be doing him any good, but the stake would. Augusta glanced up, as if waiting for me to intervene, but I just looked at her. I'd saved one of Mircea's brothers; I didn't owe him two.

Augusta's arm flashed down, almost too fast to see. But the makeshift stake hit only the floor of the theatre, connecting in an arm-numbing jolt that echoed loudly in the empty space. Dracula was simply not there anymore. I didn't understand it and neither did Augusta, but then I saw Stoker clutching a small black box. He gave me a slight smile, then slid sideways and passed out. The incubus rose from his chest, looking as smug as a largely featureless spirit can.

Augusta snatched up the box, but hesitated when she saw the way the spirit's face changed. She glanced from its demon visage to me, then again demonstrated utter practicality. She dropped it and ran.

I looked around, but no vamps were visible. Weirdly enough, other than for the chair arm and some blood smears on the stage, the theatre looked like nothing had ever happened. Still, something was missing. "Where are the wards?" I asked Billy.

He drifted out of me slowly, as if reluctant to leave the shelter of my body. He peered around, but there was no sign of the theatre ghosts. They were probably recovering from the energy drain of whatever they'd done to Myra. "Destroyed—the dislocator took them out.”

"They're gone? All of them?”

"They wouldn't have lasted anyway, Cass. They weren't offensive wards. They were designed to operate defensively on a body, as protection, not like some kind of weapon. What you saw was them self-destructing.”

I thought of the eagle making one final dive and my throat got tight.

"Cassie!" Billy's voice was like a slap. "Don't do this— not now! We have no wards and the vamps will be back any minute. We need to get gone.”

I searched around for Myra, but without Augusta's senses, it was futile. I didn't believe for a second that the ghosts had killed her. For one thing, it would take a lot more than one ghost, or even one and a half, to drain a healthy human. For another, I'm just not that lucky. I briefly contemplated trying to go back in time, to be there to catch her before she made her grand exit, but the presence of that other bomb made me hesitate. I'd seen what a dislocator could do in my vision; I didn't want to experience it firsthand.

I slid off the stage with considerably less than Augusta's undead grace and picked up the black box. It weighed no more than it had before. I shook it doubtfully, but the spirit only smiled. It looked rather strange with bloody eyes and fangs. "He is in there, I assure you.”

"Now what?" I asked, as its features slipped back into benevolent vagueness.

"I wait," it said, with a lot more serenity than I'd have felt in its position. Still, if you were immortal, I guess the prospect of a few decades' delay didn't faze you much.

Pritkin's eyelashes were fluttering. "Myra's gone," I told him before he could ask. He nodded but didn't say anything. I looked back up at my nebulous ally. "Have you seen Mircea?" I assumed he'd survived, since the sequence of events from the vision had been interrupted, but I had to be sure.

"I believe he will be along." It started to fade, and I held out a hand to stop it.

“Thank you for your help. I know you didn't do it for me, but—well, anyway." I suddenly realized something. "I don't even know your name. I'm Cassie Palmer.”