Chapter 9: The Silver Knife

They reached the porch of the house without incident, and she quickly raced up the stairs. As she reached out her hand to pull open the door, Colette froze. Her ears had heard the sound of breath, and in a swift motion, she threw herself backwards just as a blurred form leaped from the rafters of the porch. The creature's claw-like fingers raked Colette's face, drawing blood, but her momentum carried her down the stairs and out of any mortal danger.

When she halted, facing the Peterson house with both her wand and the pistol ready, she saw Shelley perched on the railing like some bird of prey, fangs bared and an animalistic hiss coming from her mouth.

"Vomen can be so difficult," she hissed at Colette in the strange, thick accent. "That is vhy I prefer to kill them all, but little Grims vas so keen on ye that I could not refused him his puppet."

"I am no one's puppet," retorted Colette with narrowed eyes.

She slowly took aim with the pistol, leveling it to the vampiress's heart. Suddenly, Shelley vanished. Startled, Colette lowered the pistol. Something heavy hit her wrist, knocking the weapon loose of her grip, and the pistol flew across the dirt street. Out of instinct, Colette tightened her grasp on her wand and muttered a shielding charm just as Shelley's fist swung down at her. The vampiress hissed in outrage and leaped backwards into the shadows.

"I am no Grims, Colette," taunted Shelley's voice. "I do not play games. Either submit yourself to me now or ye vill pay the price."

"If you want me," Colette challenged, "come and bite me."

"As ye vish."

At the exact moment that the vampiress chose to strike, the moon slid from behind the black clouds, illuminating the town of Lachlan in ghostly light. Ethan, who had been nearly unconscious, suddenly awoke and gave a loud howl at discovering he was restrained. His arm lashed out, snapping the binding and smashing into the back of Colette's head. She fell to the ground dazed and disoriented, her wand scattering a few feet away.

Shelley threw herself on top of her, claws grabbing hold of Colette's thick hair and yanking back the young witch's head painfully. Colette pulled the knife from her sash and blindly thrusted it behind her, missing her assailant. Shrieking loudly in triumph, Shelley reached forward with her sharp nails; Colette took in one last breath, expecting the claws to slice her throat.

Without warning, Shelley released her hold on Colette, and the young woman collapsed, gasping for breath. The flashes of light danced not only behind her eyes but in her mind as well. Coughing and wheezing, she forced herself to her knees and gazed around in bewilderment. The scene about her had transformed dramatically. Only a few feet away from her, Shelley was half-crouching, a look of shock upon her pale face as Grimshaw Moonsbane stood over her, Colette's silver knife protruding from the vampiress's chest.

"Ye?" she managed to hiss through the anguish.

"Colette is mine," Grimshaw jeered before the body of his mentor disintegrated into dust.

He allowed the knife to fall from his gloved hand before slowly turning towards Colette. His face was paler and more drawn than it had been earlier that night, his eyes burning a fierce red, and his thin, bloodless lips pulled back to reveal the elongated teeth. He stepped closer to Colette, his black robes swirling about him.

"It has been fun, my love, but now it will end," he told her. He knelt on one knee before her, his eyes hypnotizing her already dazed mind. She was falling into a deep sleep, her head was growing heavy, and the pain was slowly fading away…

"Move, girl!"

The gruff command brought Colette out of mist and back to the cold Lachlan night where Grims was leaning over her, teeth bared. She screamed and pushed against him with her arms as she tried to pull away from the vampire. Peterson had appeared—his magnificent crossbow hung over his back and his quiver empty of bolts. His dark eyes scanned the dirt road, found the pistol, and quickly snatched it from the ground.

As the former professor raised the pistol and took aim at the vampire, the large, bulky form of a werewolf finally broke free from Colette's magicked stretcher and turned on them, yellow eyes large with anger. In an incredible act of strength, he lunged at Colette and Grimshaw.

The vampire spun around just in time to find the massive beast on top of him, claws and teeth ripping at the vampire's body. Somehow, in the beast's savage attack, its sharp teeth tore through her right arm. She screamed from the pain, but the werewolf was preoccupied with the struggling vampire to pay her any interest. Grimshaw gave one last scream that broke off in mid-stream. In the frenzy, Colette received a nasty blow to the side of her face and four razor-sharp claws dug into her, from her left shoulder down to her right hip.

Peterson took hold of the injured girl and despite his crippled foot, hauled her up the steps and into the safety of his house.

He bolted the door and swiftly turned to examine her injuries. "You will live, girl," murmured the old man grimly. "You received a right nasty wound there, but with proper treatment, it should heal. Let me see if'n I have any of Madsby's healing droughts any place. Lie still and don't move."

Colette had no strength or desire to argue with the former professor's command, since even the tiniest movement of her chest from merely breathing caused terrible pain. She was in so much agony that she was too scared to even look down at herself to view her wounds, so she kept her eyes on the ceiling of the hall. She also could not feel her right arm, but was too afraid to look. It seemed like an eternity before she heard Peterson returning, and relief washed over her when he knelt by her head, a vial of some kind in his hand.

"Drink this, girl. It will help the pain."

He lifted the glass vile to her lips and the liquid burned her tongue and throat as she swallowed it. Almost immediately, her vision blurred and the pain lessened. A moment later, she was unconscious in the old man's arms. He set aside the empty vile and removed an old wand from inside his robes.

With a wave of his hand, he shifted the injured witch from the hall floor to the bed in his grandson's room. He preceeded to carefully clean and dress the terrible wounds to prevent any infections. He paused only once when a deep, mournful howl pierced the still night. By the time he finished, he was not surprised—but distressed—to find that the wound on her arm was already healing itself.