But the blackthumb was on him then, lost in roaring fury. The rage of a lover wronged, a husband betrayed, coupled with the strength of a thrall; falling atop the stumbling Nikita and smashing that hammer down, again, again, bone and brain pulping, blood and silversteel sizzling, the vampire shrieking, flailing, cursing. “‘He was mine before he was yours, bastard,’ Baptiste spat. “And bringing the hammer down, he smote the Blackheart’s head to ruin.
