She hits the floor with a heavy thud and lets out a sharp breath as the air is knocked out of her lungs.
“Help?” Duncan enquires again.
Standing over her unmoving body, I reach for my sword.
Before I can raise my arm all the way, she snaps her legs around my neck, cutting off my air, and tries to pull me to the ground.
I lean back, taking her with me so she’s straddling my shoulders like a kid at a concert.
She sends her weight backward, flipping me over her. I groan as my head bounces on the floor.
“I’m good,” I grunt to Duncan, springing to my feet.
“Get in there,” Knuckle Duster snarls to the woman’s partner, shoving him forward.
I run toward the warehouse wall and push against it into a high backflip, landing in a crouch behind the man. He turns around, confused. I kick his head, knocking him to the floor.
Less affected than I thought he’d be, he gets to his feet with a grin right as I feel long fingernails digging into my neck from behind.
I grasp the hands gripping my throat, and using them as leverage, jump and wrap my ankles around the man’s neck so I’m suspended between my two attackers.
I rotate my body to the left, and the man’s eyes widen in surprise.
Two of the woman’s manicured fingernails snap as she hits the floor, while I land with graceful precision on my feet.
I wince. “Sorry. Those looked expensive.”
Removing my swords, I rotate them in my hands and simultaneously slice their throats.
Crimson seeps across the dirt floor, collecting in a central pool; the corpses’ lifeless eyes stare at each other, as if they died in a lover’s pact.
Knuckle Duster moves swiftly. Sensing a more powerful enemy, I abandon my swords and twist the whip disguised as a belt around my arm. He grins. What is it with men and whips?
“Help,” I whisper to Duncan.
My first lash catches Knuckle Duster on the ear.
He yelps, as his blood drips like a macabre ruby earring.
Eyes narrowing, he stalks toward me. I try catching his other ear, but he grasps the whip and, wrapping it around his wrist, drags me to him.
His fist slams into my gut.
I grunt and lean forward to keep my balance as the force sends me skidding backward. The whip follows me like a snake, throwing dirt into the air.
Plucking a dagger from my boot, I stab it in the floor to slow my momentum.
Knuckle Duster is in front of me before I can fully stand.
“Duck!” Duncan shouts. Doing as I’m told—a rare occurrence, so take note—I duck and roll across the unyielding dirt, missing a shot of blue magic by a hair’s breadth.
“Be glad my reactions are as fast as Lightning McQueen’s,” I breathe, hissing at the pain in my back from the road rash.
Landing next to the woman’s body, I yank my sword out of her throat.
Minuscule air movements tickle across my palms, giving away Knuckle Duster’s next attack. Leaning back in a move worthy of The Matrix, I dodge a jab of his elbow to my throat, swing my leg out across the floor, and trip him backward while wrapping the whip around his neck.
His substantial six-foot-plus form hits the ground, and I hear the tell-tale sound of bones cracking.
Duncan scoffs. “Okay, I do love your references… but you got me on this one. Who’s Lightning McQueen? Sounds like some UFC fighter. Am I right?”
I hold back a giggle and try to adopt an air of confidence. “He’s a racecar driver. Drives for Disney, actually.” Duncan tilts his head to the side, and I roll my eyes. “It’s Pixar! Cars?” he gives me a blank stare, and I sigh. “Whatever.”
Lying on the floor, the creep tries to negotiate. “Can’t we make a deal? My name is Eric. I can persuade anyone to do anything you want. My employer is powerful—trust me, he could get you anything you want.”
“Eric? I think I preferred Knuckle Duster,” I mutter, causing him to frown. Channeling my inner feminist tendencies—if you ask Duncan, they’re more accurately called my “psychotic” tendencies—I kick him where every man dreads.
He rolls to his side, groaning. A putrid, clear liquid oozes over his entire body. Shedding his human form, his skin turns a vibrant shade of purple.
Duncan and I tilt our heads to the right.
“Death or defense?” I wonder.
“You bitch!” Eric snarls, springing to his feet.
Ah. That would be defense, then.
He blocks my first strike by sacrificing part of his arm.
Sniffing the air, I wrinkle my nose. “I smell burning.”
Duncan punches Eric in the face. I grimace as I hear cartilage breaking, and something splatters across my face.
Eric staggers back, nearly tripping on an errant piece of rubbish. “My master will make you suffer for an eternity. He’ll strip the flesh from your bones and feed it to the hounds of hell!” he screams.
Interrupting Eric’s threat to damn us to eternity, Duncan pulls on the end of my braid and brings it around so I can examine it.
I whirl on him. “You singed my hair!”
Duncan’s lips turn up as he uses his nickname for me. “No, Locks, you just weren’t fast enough.”
Eric advances again, his face twisted with rage.
He lashes out and catches my arm with his claws. Several stinging scratches dribble blood.
Using my irritation to put extra force behind my thrust, I swing my blade high and slice perpendicular to Eric’s neck.
His head, now a vivid purple with lilac freckles, hits the ground and, like a bowling ball, bounces twice, spins to the right, and hits the warehouse wall.
I sniff haughtily. “I disagree—your aim is off. Seriously, when’s the last time you practiced with those fireballs you throw around willy-nilly?” I examine my hair again and groan. “You’re lucky it was just the ends.”
Surveying the room, I point my finger at Duncan. “Your turn.”
He shakes his head. “No way, I mopped up the nest of vampires last week. Anyway, you’re already covered in…” He points up and down at my black combat gear coated in demon blood and guts. I stare at the ceiling, trying to get my annoyance in check.
“Why can’t they go poof?” I emphasize by clapping my hands in front of me. “Like in the movies?”
Duncan scratches his beard. “Which movies?”
I try to think on my feet. “Buffy?”
“You’re joking, right?”
I put my hands on my hips. “They get ‘dusted’ by the slayer. It’s clean, it’s neat, and Buffy goes home without getting sweaty. In fact, half the time she goes on a date or out with her friends afterwards and nobody is the wiser about her efforts to keep Sunnydale safe.”
He stifles a laugh as he grabs my injured arm. Healing warmth suffuses my skin as he passes his palm over the scratches. “You know the name of the town Buffy protects?”
“And you do, too, by the sound of it,” I retort with a grin. He looks away, but not before I catch the blush creeping up his cheeks. Ha, I knew it. He’s a closet Buffy fan. The stinging in my arm diffuses, and Duncan lifts his hand away to reveal pink, fresh tissue.
I move my arm back and forth, testing the tightness of the skin. “Your healing power never ceases to amaze me,” I mutter.