Blood Lines

yet more power from the acolytes and fed it into the protection spell-so stupid to have touched him and rendered all but the most basic defense useless. If he released the spell of acquisition, he had power enough to break free, but the spell of acquisition was all he had left. There could be no turning back.
    He wrenched his gaze free of the Nightwalker's and dropped his hands down to the corded column of throat. An instant later, an answering band of flesh closed tightly around his own throat, only his magic keeping the crushing thumbs from his windpipe.
    I will not loose this ka ! He slammed the spell of acquisition against the Nightwalker's strength.
    The sun became a holocaust of flame, but the Hunger dragged Henry through it to answer the blood that called from the other side.
    How the fuck am I supposed to shoot at that ? Celluci leaned panting against the wall of the disco, one hand shielding his eyes from the painfully bright lights scattering off the spinning silver ball. Goddamned son of a bitch was supposed to distract him, not fucking dance with him .
    From where he stood, Celluci could see Fitzroy's back and, just above that, long golden fingers wrapped around Fitzroy's throat. A slight shift to his right showed him that Fitzroy's fingers were in turn locked around the throat of a tall dark man; probably good-looking under more normal circumstances. Although he couldn't say why, Celluci had the strangest feeling that the attempt at mutual strangulation was merely window dressing, that the real struggle was taking place somewhere else.
    Maybe I should let them throttle each other and then shoot what's left . Gun cocked, he stepped out onto the dance floor. The new angle moved the combatants into unobstructed profile. Although their upper bodies swayed back and forth barely a hand's span apart, both sets of feet were firmly planted with nearly a meter between them. Well, I'm no Barry Wu, but I think that I can at least guarantee not to hit the wrong legs . He took his stance, braced his service revolver with his left hand, and tried to steady his breathing. He'd probably have a better chance if he waited until his lungs stopped heaving air in and out like asthmatic bellows, but it was coming up on midnight, and if Rachel Shane was right, the world didn't have much time. Once in the knee to get his attention and then a second round to finish him .
    In such a small, enclosed space the sound of the gunshot expanded to touch the walls then slam back. And forth. And back. The shot itself went wide.
    'Shit goddamnit!"
    Ears ringing, Celluci raised the gun to shoot again, but unfortunately, although he'd done no damage, he had gotten the wizard-priest's attention.
    The sound nearly jerked his grip from the Nightwalker's ka and only centuries of practice kept the spell of acquisition from shattering. He tightened his grip, slammed his rage at the interruption against the younger immortal's will, and, in the instant of breathing space that bought, sucked yet more power from the acolytes in order to snarl, "Stop him!"
    'Stop him?" Celluci stepped back a step and then another. "Oh, fuck." He'd been so intent on the battle between Fitzroy and the mummy that he'd completely ignored the semicircles of chanting men and women that lined both sides of the dance floor. He had, in fact, passed right through one group in order to gain his current position, their presence never even registering. Look, it's been a long day, I've got a lot on my mind. But that kind of inattention to detail could get a man killed. I can't believe I did that .
    Somewhere between twenty and thirty people shuffled out of the shadows, placing their bodies between their master and the threat. Still chanting, they moved slowly toward Celluci, faces frighteningly blank.
    He backed up another few steps and raised his gun. Although he recognized a number of the group as senior police officers, they didn't seem to recognize the weapon and kept advancing. In another two or three feet, he'd be at the edge of the dance floor, his back against the wall. Fifteen years on the force allowed him to maintain a patina of calm, but he could feel panic beginning to lap at the edges.
    Almost frantically he searched for something to shoot, something that would get their attention, force them to acknowledge that he was the one with the gun. Unfortunately, the spinning disco ball, the most obvious target, was providing over half of the available light. Backing up another