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Primo still had the man he’d picked as his scapegoat, but he was holding him sort of nonchalantly down at his side like a forgotten bag of laundry. I realized that the man had passed out, and got to my feet, trying to see if he was breathing. I didn’t like the way Primo had the man’s jacket collar twisted around his neck. Had I been so worried about the fist that I’d let Primo choke the man to death?

Jean-Claude’s voice breathed through my head. “He is not breathing, but his heart still beats.”

I said out loud, “We’re out of time.”

“Yes,” he said, and I think that was out loud. He reached out to me, not with his hand but with his power, and this wasn’t the warm living power of the lycanthrope. The cool grace of the grave touched me, and it flared that part of me that raised the dead. I suddenly knew how I’d cut him. I suddenly knew how it worked. It was like a puzzle box in my head, and suddenly I knew just where to press and just what it meant. Slashing from a distance used the beings’ own magical aura against them. It turned their magical shielding into a slender invisible blade that could be turned against them. Jean-Claude had known what it was and how it worked for centuries, but he’d never been able to do it himself. He knew the how, but could not do it. I could do it, but didn’t know the how. Together we suddenly had it covered.

My goal was not to kill Primo, but to make him let go of the man. I held my hand out toward him, and he still didn’t look scared.

“Do you think your little cuts will stop me?” he demanded.

“No,” I said, and I threw power at him, almost like throwing a ball, and that ball caught against his aura, his shielding, like a burr on a piece of cloth. But the ball didn’t stay a ball, and it didn’t exactly pierce Primo’s shielding. It was as if the ball melted onto it, and where it melted, it invaded the shielding, became one with it, and turned that protective coating into something long and slender and sharp. I visualized that sharpness cutting across his belly, and his shirt split like a skin to show white flesh and blood.

It was a bigger wound than the other two, and his hand went to it, as if it hurt, or as if he wasn’t sure how hurt he was.

“How do you like that one?” I asked. “Big enough for you?”

He snarled at me, flashing fangs that looked too big for his mouth.

It had done exactly what I wanted it to. Thanks to Jean-Claude’s centuries of frustrated study, I had a new weapon. I’d been afraid before to hit too close to the victim. All it would have taken was the vic to have a little psychic gift, and I could have done more damage to him than to Primo. But now I had it, I knew it, I felt it.

I flicked a hand at the arm that held the man, and that arm split open from elbow to wrist. Blood spilled down his arm in a crimson wash, if his heart had been beating enough, the blood would have jumped out of his open arteries, but he didn’t have the blood pressure for it. Not anymore.

“Do you seek to save this?” he lifted the man by his twisted collar. “It is dead and only meat for the animals now.”

“His heart still beats,” Jean-Claude said.

But we had only moments before mouth-to-mouth wasn’t going to save him from brain damage. I threw both hands up, and I cut him. I tried slicing his arm like you’d bone a fish, but I could not break the deeper tissue. I could cut his skin and meat away but the ligaments held, and that was all Primo needed to hold the vic until he died. Stubborn bastard.

“If you do not drop the man now, Primo, I will see this as a direct challenge to my authority.”

“See it any way you like, but I will not be a whipping boy for this,” and he pointed not at me, but at the men that lay unconscious around him, at Buzz who stood near, but not too near. We were out of his league, and he knew it.

“So be it,” Jean-Claude said. In my head he said, “Ma petite, it is not a knife, it is not a single blade, it is magic. If you can turn one small piece of his power against him, then why not all of it?