Chapter 47 Jacob.

Chapter 47: 47 Jacob.

I sighed. Well, nothing for it. I glided around to the front of the building and set myself down on the porch leading to the old wood doors.

I raised my hand and felt my power cling to the hinges and metal knobs. Here goes nothing.

I shoved my arm forward, and with a groan of metal and crackle of breaking wood I forced the doors inside, ripping them off the frame and hurling them across the room.

Instantly alarms started blaring as I strode inside. Chaos met me.

Security were still picking themselves up from the ruinous passage of the doors.

Ice coated the gallery and the ground floor like an ice age had swept in uninvited and froze all the fine varnished wood and elaborate paneling. Even the paintings were coated in a layer of frost.

I swept my eyes around, noticing the bulky shapes of a couple Order scorpo bots, their metal camo’d white, the curving tails ending in the stingers of death rays, now inert thanks to Patty.

But the low tech solution of henchmen were recovering fast.

Men in heavy grey coats and furred hats from their northern home hurried into position, all armed to the teeth, and I felt every weapon in the room train on me.

I’m guessing the ones outside were more like hired help than close relatives.

"Freeze!" one of the goons shouted as he swung up his rifle.

"Is that a pun?" I said lightly, pointing at the frost on the walls.

He raised his gun higher and hissed. "I won’t repeat myself."

"You’re funny," I said, reached up, and pinched my fingers.

Every muzzle tightened instantly, squeezed shut.

As the goons pulled the triggers, their weapons backfired, exploding in their hands. Screams of agony and shock filled the room, echoing off the frozen walls and paintings.

Ah.

Good times.

One of the minions, showing that single-minded stupidity and loyalty of a real paid and proper henchmen, tried to rush me with a combat knife.

Unfortunately for him, his uniform was loaded with metal buttons and his belts had the same.

I barely had to move my hand to throw him across the room, smashing him into the far wall so hard he went right through it.

Well, I made my entrance.

Time to make it count.

I strode forward, passing through moaning bodies of henchmen and towards the large doors at the back. This time the goons on the other side were ready.

As I threw open the doors a hail of bullets thundered at me, only to veer off a magnetic field I threw up, instead chewing up the walls and floors around me.

It was near impossible to stop a bullet coming at you, especially in the numbers I was being pounded with. Too much force behind them, a lesson I learned the hard way. But redirecting them? That was child’s play.

The henchmen stared in shock as I strode through the barrage of gunfire like I was off on a morning stroll, never even slowing until their guns clicked, empty.

Belatedly, they reached for more clips.

I waited until they’d loaded them, and before they could take aim again I let my field drop, magnetically grabbed the metal in their clothes, and threw all of them back and into the doors at the end of the hall.

They hit it hard, bodies battering through with meaty thuds to fly into the next room, skimming across the icy floor like hockey pucks.

Before I could react something solid slammed into me and pummeled me through the frost covered walls.

I rolled over and looked back through the me shaped hole in the wall to see what appeared to be... Edward Cullen?

How old was bookworm supposed to even be?

Pale white skin. Black dead eyes. And dressed like a teenage girl’s wet dream.

He burst forward in one swift lunge at me and pushed me back further into the wall. Hands over my throat and choking me out I reached out and lifted one of the discarded guns and rained him in the back till he let go.

The bullets tore through his back, blowing chunks of pale flesh and tailored suit onto the frosted wallpaper.

He dropped me, stumbling forward, but he didn’t bleed. No blood, no gore. Just dry, black ash flaking from the bullet holes.

"Seriously?" I gasped, massaging my bruised windpipe as I scrambled back. "Twilight?"

He snarled, baring fangs that looked entirely too sharp to be PG-13, and lunged again.

I didn’t wait. I grabbed the magnetic pull of a heavy iron chandelier hanging in the adjacent hall and yanked myself backward.

My boots skidded across the frost-slicked floor, pulling me out of the sitting room just as his pale claws shredded the air where my throat had been.

I needed space. I threw myself backward through a pair of heavy swinging doors, bursting into the hotel’s massive industrial kitchen.

It was a magnetic playground. Stainless steel prep tables, hanging iron pots, industrial sinks.

Sparkles burst through the doors a fraction of a second later, moving with terrifying, supernatural speed.

He vaulted off a prep table, diving at me in a blur of pale skin and brooding angst.

I swept my hand in a wide arc. A dozen heavy chef’s knives ripped themselves from a magnetic strip on the far wall, hurtling at him like a volley of silver missiles.

He swatted them aside like gnats, though three of them buried themselves to the hilt in his chest.

He didn’t even flinch, just kept coming. Right.

No conventional weaknesses. Bookworm had written out all the inconvenient rules. No wooden stakes, no sunlight, no garlic allergies.

He slammed into me with the force of a freight train, driving us both into a massive walk-in refrigerator.

The thick steel door crumpled under our impact. My teeth rattled in my skull as he grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket and hurled me across the room.

I crashed hard over a steel island, groaning as I hit the floor on the other side, scattering pots and pans.

He hissed, stalking forward. He casually yanked a butcher’s knife out of his sternum and tossed it clattering onto the tiles.

"And you’re a walking copyright infringement." I wheezed, forcing myself to my feet.

Conventional weaknesses or not, fire is a universal law. Everything burned.

I backed up against the kitchen’s massive industrial gas range.

Pressing my hands flat against the cold metal, I reached out with my power, feeling for the internal mechanisms. The safety valves. The heavy iron dials.

He sprang into the air, fangs bared, aiming to pin me to the tiles and drain me dry.

I twisted my wrist violently. All eight iron dials on the commercial stove snapped to maximum.

Deep within the pipes, I ripped the safety valves wide open, flooding the immediate airspace with the heavy, hissing stench of raw methane.

As he descended, claws outstretched, I focused on the heavy cast-iron grates and clamped them together with a brutal magnetic pulse.

Metal ground on metal. A shower of brilliant yellow sparks rained directly into the gas cloud.

The ignition was catastrophic. A roaring, concussive fireball erupted from the stove, catching the vampire squarely mid-air. He shrieked—a high, inhuman sound—as the explosion blew him backward across the kitchen.

He hit the floor thrashing, completely engulfed in searing orange flames, the fire clinging to his form like napalm.

I pushed myself off the counter, dusting off my heavy coat as the smell of burning hair overpowered the methane. The hotel was a mess, but whatever. It wasn’t like I owned the place.

"Team Jacob," I muttered.