Desmond swung the sword in a horizontal arc aimed for Mayhew’s neck. He would have done it too if Mayhew hadn’t sensed the attack and shifted forms. As me, or as the professor, he was short enough to be lobotomized by Desmond’s swing. As Angie, who might as well have been a part-time supermodel with her mile-long legs and stupid heels, he was now tall enough to take the hit in the arm instead of the neck.
Goddamn shape-shifting demons.
The force of the blow was enough to make Mayhew release me. I kicked off from the wall when his grip slackened, and rolled away before bouncing back to my feet. For the time being Mayhew had forgotten all about me, which was awesome except for one problem. It meant he was now focused on Desmond. The demon looked intent on following through with his promise to murder my live-in loved one.
Mayhew struck a hard blow and knocked Desmond to the ground.
The werewolf backpedaled, moving himself out of the path of Mayhew’s next strike. The punch landed on concrete and left a disconcerting crater where my boyfriend’s head had previously been. If I left Desmond fighting the demon on his own much longer, the next crater would be in his skull.
I climbed onto the ledge on the outside of the observation deck, avoiding a bank of viewfinders and using the metal bars to guide me along the narrow path that rose and fell in height like a brick wave. I got within a few feet of their tussle and waited for my opportunity to show itself.
If Desmond saw me, he made no indication of it, keeping his eyes fixed on Mayhew and preparing himself for the next assault. Mayhew was like a cobra, swaying in place to some internal melody and looking almost benign as he waited for the right moment. The demon was a predator in the truest sense of the word. Instead of diving in willy-nilly, he wouldn’t move again until he thought he could strike a death blow.
There was definitely a death blow coming. It just wouldn’t be delivered by the demon.
There was no better time than now to make my move, and if I waited any longer, Desmond might be dead and I’d never get another chance.
I leaped through the air with my sword angled for a heart strike. The blade hit first, piercing the bare skin of Mayhew-as-Angie’s back. My weight collided next, and we both pitched forward. My momentum rammed the sword through flesh and bone until it crashed into Mayhew’s sternum and thrust out the other side.
Direct hit.
We were falling, and I realized a moment too late where we were going to land.
“Roll, roll, roll,” I screamed, but Desmond didn’t hear me or didn’t process the words in time.
Mayhew landed on top of Desmond, and I was still firmly on top of Mayhew. All three layers of the pile were connected via the sword like a demon-werewolf shish kebab. Over Mayhew’s shoulder I saw Desmond’s eyes widen and his mouth form a surprised O. He’d been hit by the blade, there was no doubt in my mind.
“Are you okay? Desmond, are you okay? Oh God I’m so sorry. Desmond?”
He blinked a few times, fighting back tears, then wheezed, “Get him off me.”
I got to my feet, bracing my heel against Mayhew’s back like he’d done with Gabriel, and tugged on the sword, expecting it to slide out easily. It didn’t budge. I pulled harder, but still the sword wouldn’t move. Even if the blade was embedded in a stubborn bone shard, there was no way it would be stuck like this. Every time I pulled, Desmond winced.
“I’m sorry, I’m trying.”
That perfectly ideal moment was when Mayhew decided to come to. The demon was face-to-face with Desmond, and the werewolf had no way to protect himself if Mayhew went for his th
roat. I started yanking on the blade harder and harder, standing with both feet on the demon’s back as I tried like a would-be Arthur to remove the stubborn Excalibur from its lodging.
Then I felt the heat.
The katana’s handle grew warmer as it had at Calliope’s. Warmth transformed into heat, and heat into an unbearable fire. I wanted to let go but found myself unable to release the weapon. The phoenix inset on the handle of the sword glowed bright red to match the searing pain.
Mayhew must have felt it too. Instead of finishing off Desmond, the demon reared back his head and let out a terrifying bellow. His body bucked, trying to knock me off, and both his hands reached around in an attempt to withdraw the blade.
My skin bubbled and split, my open palms fusing to the phoenix design. The dragon pattern of the blade began to glow. It started out faint, but as Mayhew’s blood flowed up the blade—an impossibility of physics—the light turned white and so intense I couldn’t look directly at it. When the demon’s blood reached the hilt of the sword, there was a loud pop, the same kind you hear when a jet breaks the sound barrier.
The sword suddenly yielded to my desperate pulls, and the weapon and I tumbled backwards, the handle still melted to my skin. Mayhew staggered to his feet, no longer holding one form. He shifted through all the human identities he’d had, dozens of them I’d never seen before, then they all started getting mixed up. My hair would end up on the professor’s face, or Trish’s head would find its way onto the body of a German SS officer. That one was especially off-putting.
Finally the transformations stopped, leaving his form a bizarre Frankenstein monster mishmash of all the people he’d been. He pointed at the sword, which was still glowing red and white in my hand but no longer hot enough to burn me. Or maybe I was numb to the pain.
“You,” he raged. “You had it all along.”
I looked at the sword. The phoenix inlay was made of some kind of metal alloy. The dragon was gold. Or at least that was what they appeared to be to the untrained eye. Where had I found Mayhew at the museum? In the geology department. He said he’d been looking for something to send him back. The lights emanating from the sword pulsed as if to congratulate me on my understanding.
The sword was the key to releasing him.
I staggered to my feet and braced myself. If he wanted to go back to his kingdom in hell, I was more than happy to send him there.