“Only the easy ones,” I said, and didn’t delay the inevitable. I hitched up my skirt—this one being a little more flexible than the last—and kicked up and out. He was fast enough to block it, to grab my leg and twist, trying to send me off-balance.
But I’d already played that game once this week and wasn’t about to lose points to that technique a second time. I shifted my weight to the leg he held, used his grip for balance, and spun around, executing an airborne parallel kick with my free leg. He’d lifted an arm to block, but missed, and I connected with his left side. He stumbled forward, leered back at me when he’d righted himself.
“One lucky shot,” he said, and sped toward me. He jabbed, and I dodged the shot, his fist glancing off my shoulder, but with enough force to still make it sing. He’d left his torso open, and I punched him in the stomach. He grunted, staggered, came back again.
I’d give him strong and tenacious. But any asshole could be strong. His next shot was a right cross. His speed hadn’t diminished, but he favored the side I’d kicked, and he telegraphed the move. I grabbed his wrist, swung it down, using the leverage to force him to the ground.
I stepped over him, planted a foot on his neck. “When a woman says no, she means it, you raging sack of crap.”
“Fuck you.”
“I already declined that very unattractive offer,” I said, and pressed a little harder. Jacobs and his men had already moved into the crowd, so my time was nearly up. Might as well use it for something good. “Where’s Balthasar?”
When he didn’t immediately answer, I pushed harder on his windpipe. “Where. Is. Balthasar?”
“Dead. He’s dead. He died at the Geneva safe house.” That was the one Luc hadn’t been able to reach.
Ethan’s relief peppered the air.
I lifted my foot. Julien’s hand rushed to his throat, massaged.
“Elaborate,” I ordered.
“They thought he’d been rehabilitated.” He coughed, and his voice was hoarse. “They were wrong. He killed a human girl who’d delivered supplies to the house. The safe house couldn’t protect him; he was staked. There’s a marker for him at Plainpalais Cemetery.”
That was verifiable information. So I took a step back and swept dirt from my dress as Julien coughed.
I looked up, nodded at Jacobs. “It appears Mr. Burrows has fallen, Detective. I believe you can handle him from here?”
“You’d be right about that,” Jacobs said, stepping forward. “And given his psychic propensities, we’ll make sure he’s in a magically appropriate space. Julien Burrows,” he said as the uniforms hauled him to his feet, “you’re under arrest for three counts of sexual assault, one count of attempted sexual assault, trespassing . . .”
“You son of a bitch!” Julien screamed. “Deceiver! Deceiver!”
The screaming and recitation of charges faded away as the cops and suspect moved around the House toward their waiting transportation.
I walked toward Ethan, took in the torn shirt spotted with blood, the bruise under his cheek, the blood on his face. “You kind of look like a disaster.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Ethan burst into laughter.
“Are you all right?”
“At the moment, Sentinel, I’m not. But I’ve got you and my House, and I will be.”
Chapter Twenty-five
AVOWAL
It was done. With three more phone calls to Switzerland and Ethan’s excellent French, we verified Balthasar’s ignoble end. He’d used “Bernard” as his alias in order to distance himself from activities in London and any lingering members of the Memento Mori. Julien had stuck to the truth about much of Balthasar’s history, which Ethan verified with the safe house’s archivist.
And with that, the ghost who’d haunted our dreams—literally and figuratively—was finally gone. Yes, there was still Reed and his sorcerer to deal with. But this threat, at least, had been neutralized.
Most of the vampires had left the party, returned to their Houses. Our group—our Cadogan and Ombuddy family—still sat at a table beneath the tent looking utterly relaxed and sipping the rest of the champagne.
“What’s the saying?” Ethan asked. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here?” But he grinned at them, accepted the glass of champagne that Luc offered.
“We were just saying how gorgeous the garden looked,” Jeff said, “and how you’d probably agree to let them use it for their wedding.”
Since nobody at the table looked surprised, Mallory and Catcher must have shared the nuptial news. “I don’t want any fuss.”
“It wouldn’t be any fuss at all,” Luc said. “Right, hoss?”
“Of course not. I actually already offered her the garden, if I recall.”
“He did,” Mallory said, reaching out to pat his arm. “It was a very nice offer.”
“And it still stands.” Ethan grinned. “Hell, we’re all dressed in pretty clothes, and the garden will hardly get any better than this. We could just do it now.”
He’d meant it as a joke, but a weighty silence fell as Mallory and Catcher looked at each other.
“We couldn’t,” Mallory said. “Could we?”
Catcher scratched the back of his neck, looked at Mallory. “I don’t know why we wouldn’t, actually. There’s never going to be a perfect time. Isn’t that the point of love, or marriage, in the first place? Recognizing that perfection is irrelevant? That imperfection is sometimes kind of perfect?”
Mallory pressed her lips together, trying to will back tears.
“Oh my God, are you two seriously about to get married?” Lindsey drummed her feet on the ground like an excited child.
Catcher didn’t take his eyes off Mallory, but reached out and squeezed her hand. “I kinda think we are, yeah.”
Ethan looked at the group. “Anybody licensed to perform a ceremony?”
Grinning, Jeff raised a hand. “Actually, I am. River nymphs,” he explained with a shrug, and I was momentarily bummed I hadn’t been invited to that particular wedding. The nymphs knew how to party. “Do you have a license?”
Mallory nodded. “I got it yesterday.”
“Then we’re good,” Jeff said.
“Oh my God,” Mallory said, her excitement rising, her eyes glowing with love and happiness. “Oh my God.” She slapped Catcher’s arm. “We’re going to get married.”