One lifts his weapon.
“Don’t,” I snap.
He fires. The bullet smacks the golem, skews, then ricochets off a beam; sparks spit. I frown and thicken the paper’s weave.
“Guns?” Riker growls.
“We all adapt,” one vampire replies, voice silky with the faintest trace of an old accent. “The Grand Master sends his regards—you were not meant to free the island yet.”
“File a complaint,” Lander says. “On the ground.”
They laugh.
The nearest female blurs forward, fingers slashing for Lander’s throat—classic vampire tactic—but my golem is faster. Paper hands close around her in mid-air. I jerk my fist down and smash her into the floor. The impact cracks concrete, and the golem pins her, pressing until bones creak.
She snarls, eyes flashing, and rakes the paper. Claws shred the outer layers, yet the weave beneath holds.
“Oh, I like these,” Riker says. “Big lads.” He flings his knife; it thuds into the pinned vampire’s sternum with a crack that vibrates in my teeth. She wheezes, eyes rolling back, then goes limp.
“We still aren’t killing?” he pants, ducking a punch from another vamp and answering with a vicious elbow.
“No killing unless absolutely necessary,” Lander says automatically. “Just make it hurt.”
The male vampire abandons Lander and switches targets—me. In a blink he is nose to nose, fangs bared, pistol levelled point-blank?—
—until my second golem steps in. The vampire is shoved away.
The shot lands square in its chest. Paper ripples, layers folding inward; the bullet sinks with a hiss as though dropped into water.
“Oh,” I murmur. “That worked better than expected.”
The golem backhands the vampire. He sails into a stack of paint tins, which clatter down like metal hail.
“Harper!” Lander calls.
“I am fine,” I shout back. “Busy, but fine.”
Behind me, Lander and Riker move in a tight, practised pattern. A vampire misjudges a lunge; Riker’s kick takes his knee at exactly the wrong angle. The joint folds with a crunch. As he hisses on the floor, Lander drops a containment spell, forcing his body to arch and exposing his back.
A flick of the wand, and glowing bands sear around the female vampire.
“Stay,” he orders.
The last vampire—the one with the smug smile and ugly accent—remains upright. Riker faces him, chest heaving. Claw marks stripe Riker’s arm, already healing; the vampire sports a split lip and an eye swelling shut.
“I thought shifters were faster,” he taunts.
Riker shows too many teeth. “We were sparring. This is me being gentle.”
He surges forward.
They blur—fists, claws, fangs. I catch snapshots: Riker ducking; the vampire twisting to land a hook; Riker taking it and driving an elbow into his ribs.
A gunshot cracks.
Time stutters.
Riker staggers.
