I could think of her as Death because the alternative was Ishtar—essentially calling her a goddess, which I would not do. I had never heard her real name, though I had the impression that she hated it.

“I could do this all night, Elizaveta,” crooned Death, working up a rhythm with her whip. “You probably know exactly how wonderful this feels—yes, I had some lovely talks with your people. I almost kept one or two, but in the end decided I could use the power boost more. You have that much of a reputation, which should please you.”

She paused, surveying her work. There was a certain satisfaction in her body language. She took pride, I remembered, in the evenness of her lash work.

“I could break you, Elizaveta,” she crooned. “I could destroy your flesh and drink down your power.”

Magda squeezed herself and shivered. “I like it when you do that, Ishtar. Yummy.”

Death gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know, sweetheart. But I was given a task.” She started swinging again. This time there was no rhythm in it, no way to plan for the sting.

I knew how that felt.

“I could beat you to death,” she said. “We will drink your power and your pain, and my coven would find that acceptable. Particularly when you have given us such interesting toys and spells to take home. I bet you didn’t know that your grandson knew where you kept the family spellbook, did you? Stupid of you to leave him alive so long. He died knowing that he’d gotten his revenge.”

Robert, I thought, and had an instant, unbidden memory of his featureless, scarred face.

Elizaveta was beginning to pant, though it was more from emotion than from exhaustion. “Or you can surrender. We have ten bloodlines in our coven. Yours would be the eleventh. So close to a full coven. You’ve felt our power as a victim. Wouldn’t you love to feel it as one of us? I offer you power you could only dream about without us.”

“I am Elizaveta Arkadyevna Vyshnevetskaya, of house Kikimora. I can trace my bloodline a thousand years. Never would I join your ragtag band of mutts and rejects. I know who you are, Patience Ramsey. There is no house Ramsey. You do not know from where your witchblood comes. It was present in neither your mother’s nor in her husband’s lineage. Calling yourself Death does not make you a great witch, does not make legitimate your bloodline.”

She didn’t get it all out at once. But she did pull it off without screams or grunts, and I wasn’t sure that I would have managed it if I’d been in her place. By the end of Elizaveta’s little speech, Death—Patience—was trying her best to beat Elizaveta into silence.

I wasn’t just waiting around while the witches and Elizaveta had their chat. I used the fire and their preoccupation to slide all the way around the outer edge of the patio. It was really dark tonight; the moon was a bare sliver and there was a storm in the air that was covering the stars. If anyone had been looking, they would have seen me easily. But Elizaveta was giving them enough of a show that no one thought to look.

Except for Adam, who pinned his ears at me. And the dead dragon, which had turned its head in my direction.

I pinned my ears back at Adam. I was good at slinking unseen in plain sight. It was what coyotes do. And I was pretty sure that I wouldn’t have drawn the attention of the witches if I jumped up and ran around Adam singing “Love Is a Many-Splendored Thing.” They were enjoying themselves so much beating on Elizaveta, they were making this part much easier than it might have been.

As far as the dragon was concerned, I had decided to worry about it when it decided to worry about me.

I came, eventually, one careful pace at a time, to the shadows next to the house, wiggling (carefully) behind a box elder bush. Elizaveta kept her home very neat, and there were no unfortunate dried leaves or weeds to make noise. If we survived, I’d thank her for that. If all went according to plan from here on out, I’d spend the next stage of our battle here, out of the way.

When all hell broke loose, I’d run for my cutlass—especially since I knew that there were a lot of zombies, a lot more than any of us had planned on.

Adam was watching me—and so was the dragon. I wrinkled my nose and showed them both my teeth. I was trying to hide. I couldn’t do it if they both were determined to make sure the witches figured out there was something in the bushes.

Look away, I told Adam via our bond.

Adam and the dragon turned their attention to the outer darkness, away from Elizaveta’s corner of hell, and away from me. I had the odd thought—I expected a dragon, if I ever met one, to be bigger.

I sighed, put my muzzle on my paws, and settled in to wait. It was Wulfe’s show now.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Like me, he took advantage of the distraction Elizaveta provided. He stepped onto the concrete without fanfare, and no one—except Campbell, Adam, and . . . Elizaveta—noticed him do it. He just walked up to Death, to Patience, and grabbed her arm midswing.

She jerked, then fought—but he was a vampire. He ignored her and waved a careless hand. The manacles on Elizaveta’s ankles and wrists dropped to the ground. Somehow he let go of Death’s arm and caught Elizaveta before she hit the ground, too.

I had the uncomfortable thought that he might be faster than most of the werewolves. Maybe faster than me. I counted on my speed to stay safe. I didn’t like it that Wulfe was so quick. I would remember that.

He set Elizaveta down on one of the chairs scattered carelessly around the patio, picking one that was several paces outside the action. He took his time, making sure that she was as comfortable as possible—almost as if he were inviting the witches to attack him while they thought he was distracted.

They didn’t take him up on it. Patience, rubbing her wrist, had run across the patio until she stood shoulder to shoulder with Magda, where they could touch.

If I’d been Wulfe, I would have been interested in keeping them farther apart.

“Who are you?” Patience asked, her tones wary.

I felt a subtle wash of foul magic.

“Wizard,” said Magda. “The Wizard—whatever that means. Wolf and Wizard.” Her face twisted unhappily. “He’s not a wolf. I don’t know why I said that.”

“You can call me Wulfe if you want to,” said Wulfe with a smile. “Or you can call me Wizard—but not many do that last to my face.”

I wondered if he felt the slow build of magic that Death, that Patience, was working. But I needn’t have worried.

Wulfe laughed, that horrible boneless laugh, then made a gesture that ended palm out. He used the hand Stefan had cut off again. I wondered if Stefan had cut that one off for a reason.

Patience crumpled around her center, not quite losing her footing, but it looked like a near thing. She screamed, partly out of pain, but I’d wager some of it was anger, too.

“You’re a wizard,” said Magda indignantly. She reached out to grip Patience’s hand. “You used wizard magic to free Elizaveta. You can’t be a witch, too.”

As soon as she touched the other witch, that one quit screaming. I thought that Wulfe should maybe keep them from touching each other. Instead, Wulfe said, “No?”

He made another gesture with that hand. Patience put a hand, palm up, between them, and this time she didn’t scream. But the firelight revealed sweat on her forehead. The tendons of her neck were tense, as if she were making a great effort.

“Babies, help Mama,” crooned Magda. The dragon uncurled and lunged—but so did Adam. He grabbed the dragon by the muzzle and held on.

Cutlass. Adam’s need reached through our bond.

I bolted out from under the box elder and ran for the garden with every ounce of speed I could muster. I’m pretty sure that the only one who noticed me was Elizaveta, because I ran right in front of her—and because that witch was pretty scarily observant.

A step from the cutlass, I changed back to human. I grabbed the blade and brought it across the throat of the boy zombie I’d passed on my way to the house. I hadn’t seen him, just knew that he was running for me. The sharp silver blade snicked through his neck and kept moving as the boy fell.

I felt the force that animated the body break, as if I’d cut through more than flesh and bone. I felt again the likeness to the pack bond—a bare trickle compared to the river of the pack, but both were running water. For a moment, something else lingered where the zombie had fallen. Not a ghost, not a soul, but something tragic and broken. I was pretty sure it was fading, but I couldn’t wait around to find out—Adam was fighting a zombie dragon.

I ran.

No one on my side had died yet. Adam was still wrestling with the zombie. His battle was aided by the fact that the zombie was mostly just trying to get to the witches, and fighting Adam only because he was in the way.