resists Drakul

Drakul’s black-hole eyes swept back to me, and suddenly I was being crushed to the ground by the weight of the universe itself. The very thought that I could have done something against a power like that was laughable—but I’d felt this kind of raw, universe-bending will before, in Chichén Itzá. Drakul, whatever he was, had considerably more personal power than the Lords of Outer Night had ever managed to show me.
But I had hoisted those Red Court losers on their own petard, when everything was said and done. I would be damned if I rolled over for Dracula’s less famous dad.
I ground my teeth and fought back against the power crushing me, not with my muscles but with my mind. I pictured Drakul’s will as a great, dark hand pressing me down—and mine as my own hand, rising to force it away. I poured my will into the image, a couple of decades of discipline, experience, and focus, investing it with power, with reality, with life.
Gasping, one inch at a time, I lifted my hand until my right palm faced Drakul and steadied. I couldn’t stand—but I got an elbow underneath me and snarled silent defiance up at him, my right hand raised against his power.
An expression touched Drakul’s face for the first time—a small smile that showed cruelly curved, sharpened canine teeth.
“Ah,” he said, raising the knife he’d been planning to use for a blood sacrifice. “If only my own heir had been possessed of such determination.”
It took a lot of concentration to free up enough mental cycles to make word sounds with my mouth, but I wasn’t going to sit there and take it quietly. “Guess you’re Ethniu’s bitch now,” I gasped.
The smile again. “It cost little enough to support her. Minor squabbles like this are a good place to take stock of the field.”

Battle Ground Chapter 12, Page 117-118