Joanne turned a shade of pale girls with our complexions shouldn’t be able to achieve, and ducked sideways. Her shields wavered, party-goers pressing against them. I caught a glimpse of indecision on her face. Then the shields failed and half of New Orleans started closing in on us again.

My heart stuttered. I dropped and rolled, elbow and knee hitting the pavement hard, letting gravity and momentum pull me under the thing. I adjusted the M4, the stock against the pavement. Aimed at his underbelly and his privates, if he had any under the Speedo he was wearing, and fired. The M4 slammed back into me. Boom, boom, boom. Six shots, so fast the concussive reports became only three. And the silver fléchettes punched holes into him. His scream went from victory to agony. And rage. Which couldn’t be good.

I continued the roll. He landed. Just in front of me, between Joanne and me. I felt more than heard Joanne and him doing something. Fighting. Blue light exploded out. I came to my knee, one foot and hand braced.

Humans were running, screaming. The scent of panic filled the air, overriding even Stinky’s stench. There was blood on the pavement. From the reek, it was his, not Joanne’s, but I couldn’t see her. I slammed the Benelli back into its harness across my back. Pulled the nine mil and my favorite vamp killer, the carved elkhorn handle secure in my grip.

A little flash of silver landed between Stinky’s feet. Huge cloven hooves, like a Pan-god or a bull gone totally wrong. I stared at them, and at the silver falling between them, for maybe half a breath. My ears were ruined by the shotgun and the roar of humans everywhere. But I knew what a fléchette looked like, even after it had been blunted and damaged by being fired into something hard. Really hard. Dozens of others followed. The thing was healing itself in fast forward. Stinky wasn’t allergic to silver. This was so not gonna be good.