“Damn it, Percy!” the cowboy growled, eyes rolling upward. “Chucklehead spoils everything.”
Milo’s hand tightened on the raptor cane, drawing on the essence within the polished stone haft.
“Please,” the well-dressed Percy implored, almost managing to sound sincere. “No one else has to die.”
“Only one more,” Beli bellowed and surged forward like a sudden storm.
The gunslinger swiveled both pistols to the charging fey, his movements viper-quick, but Milo, driven by the cane’s auxiliary powers, was faster. Both pistols barked into the canopy as Milo swept the cane upward into the gunslinger’s outstretched forearms. The smaller man barked a curse that was garbled by a broken-voiced giggle as the revolvers tumbled from his nerveless grip.
He twisted back toward Milo, a long, pitted knife appearing in his hand as his perpetual smile widened to maniacal proportions.
“Now this is a proper shindig!” he howled, lunging for Milo.
Mid-leap, Beli crashed into the man like a bronze battering ram. Smoking fingers clamped down with a hiss on ragged buckskin as momentum carried them both several strides into a broad trunk. The tree shuddered, and Milo was certain the cowboy was broken in two by the impact, but a wild, blood-chilling cry announced the opposite. The cowboy had somehow twisted his way out of Beli’s smoldering grip and was now astride the huge fey’s back, plunging the rusty blade into the broad bronze back he rode. Milo would have thought the metallic flesh of the giant proof against the dilapidated knife, but it punched through, leaving a ragged, corroded wound that wept black ash.
Milo sprang forward, thinking to swat the clinging cowboy off Beli’s back with one magically enhanced swipe of his cane.
“Milo!” Rihyani shouted behind him. He felt a sudden pressure at the back of his head, and the air filled with sparkling motes. His body pitched forward and hit the ground as the forest faded and the motes expanded into silvery clouds that hung in front of his eyes. The sounds of Beli’s and the cowboy's struggle became distant and forgettable. He thought about rolling over and seeing what had brought about this remarkable change, but at the moment, it all seemed incredibly uninteresting. Better to wait for things to sort themselves out.
He was enjoying watching the beautiful clouds, after all.
He heard Rihyani cry in outrage somewhere closer than the rest of the fighting, but then there was the distinctive mechanical click of a pistol cocking.
“Have no fear, dear lady,” he heard Percy saying. “The blow was learned from an ancient Tibetan scroll. The young man will be fine so long as you don’t do anything foolish. Just allow those two to settle their differences without interruption, and I will see your human servitor revives without any permanent damage.”
Milo felt something hot and sharp pressing in his mind, something that demanded to be noticed, but the mists were so beautiful and everything else was so far away.
“I’m going to pluck the eyes from your skull,” Rihyani snarled, her voice throaty and bestial. “Then I’ll whisper a charm so they can bear witness to the terrible things I will do to the rest of you.”
“Madame, not one step closer,” the fancy man warned in an admirably steady voice. “One more, and it won’t much matter what you do to me as far as this fellow is concerned. He’ll be dead, and then you will have to contend with my compatriot.”
As though in answer, the cowboy threw up a strained holler of triumph, and there was a tremendous crashing sound. The painful point in Milo’s mind, which he finally realized was his will, began to burn away the discombobulating clouds, his sight and soundness of mind returning by degrees.
Milo could make out the shape of Percy standing over him, a pistol held right above his face.
“Ha-ha, hot damn!” the cowboy crowed somewhere beyond the looming barrel that eclipsed Milo’s vision. “Two for one! Now, this is a good day!”
Another carnivorous snarl issued from Rihyani, but Percy demonstratively leaned a little closer to Milo.
“The worst of this is almost over,” he assured her, his voice like that of a doctor consoling a fussy patient. “Just please, don’t do anything rash.”
Milo’s hand was resting on his cane, and he slowly curled his fingers around the polished stone haft. Keeping his eyes half-lidded, he slid his gaze to Rihyani, who was in a half-crouch. Milo almost didn’t recognize her with her face twisted by rage. He wasn’t sure, but it looked like her teeth had become fangs.
“Your turn’s comin’ next, darlin’,” the cowboy muttered as he busied himself with something Milo couldn’t see. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”
“Ezekiel Boucher!” the well-dressed man snapped in his first show of temper. “Bad enough I must tolerate your deplorable habits, but you are now putting our operation in jeopardy. Get on with it.”
“Good ol’ Mister Astor, dishing on a man in his moment of consummation, no less!”
“Now, Zeke!”
“Yankee spoilsport.”
Milo slid his eyes over and could just make out the cowboy, Ezekiel, bending the toppled hulk of Beli’s bronze body. The corroded black wounds dotting his bowed muscular back were heartbreakingly numerous. It hadn’t been a clean death, and given what Ezekiel seemed to be doing, even the fallen fey’s death was not without the rending touch of the pitted knife.
Milo turned the cane ever so slightly in his hand, the raptor’s sockets now at the proper angle.
“You’ll pay for this!” Rihyani growled, edging a little closer, every muscle coiling for a spring.
“Madame, this is getting tedious.” Mr. Percy Astor sighed. “I understand this all seems in bad taste, but I must insist your stop threa—”
BURN
Milo’s command sent two darts of burning energy lancing at Percy, but Milo had misjudged the angle. Instead of striking the man in the chest and ending him in an immolating burst, both darts grazed the man’s gun hand and then blasted his shoulder. Superheated by the sorcerous flames, several rounds in the pistol went off at once.
Only luck and the enchanted resilience woven into the black cloak kept Milo from being perforated by the wild eruption of rounds and metal shrapnel that filled the air. The suddenly less well-dressed man was not so lucky, tumbling backward as he held up his mangled hand in a ravaged sleeve. He stared at the ruined flesh and gave a shrill scream even as Milo climbed to his feet.
“Percy!” Ezekiel croaked in genuine concern even as he leapt over Beli’s body, knife in hand.
Milo spun to face the man, but for the second time, a fey beat him to the punch. Like a lioness, Rihyani sprang forward, covering an inhuman distance as she sailed toward Zeke, fingers stretched into ivory sickles. The fiendishly quick scalp hunter slipped to the side of her impaling pounce, but not to be denied, the unleashed contessa raked her talons across his face and shoulder.
Unnaturally dark blood welled up in the wounds, slow and gummy, made more horrible by the crazed grin that stretched across the man’s face. He whipped the knife around as she flew past but only managed to shear through her traveling cloak.
Rihyani landed on all fours and bounded to her feet with liquid grace as she whirled to face Ezekiel’s advance.
“Get Meinir to the car!” she snarled through a mouthful of what most certainly were needle-sharp fangs. “Now, Milo! Please!”
Milo nearly defied the instruction, leveling his cane to blast the monstrous scalp hunter, but in a blink of an eye, he and Rihyani were engaged in a lightning-fast exchange of darting swipes and nimble dodges. There was no way he could be certain he wouldn’t hit her, so with a frustrated growl, he spun and made for the Green Lady lying on the ground behind them.
Even as he bent to scoop her up, no easy feat since she was taller than him, he knew she was dead. Her features were locked in a rictus of agony, but no breath stirred her chest, and the emerald blood on her body had grown thick and tacky. A tremor of rage and frustration threatened to shake him to pieces, but w
ith a brutal effort of will, he shoved it from his mind.
Grunting and huffing, he heaved upward with Meinir draped across his arms, feeling the muscles of his back scream in protest. Righting himself after a misstep almost toppled him and the dead fey, he took off at a jog before a sharp cry made him swing heavily around.
Rihyani was slashing savagely with one hand, but the other hung at her side, pale blood seeping from a gash across her shoulder.
Ezekiel kept clear of the sweeping claws even as he slowly advanced, tossing the knife from hand to hand playfully as he chuckled.
“Three little faeries in one evenin’,” he cooed in a sickeningly tender voice. “Oh, I’m a lucky, lucky boy.”
Milo looked down at Meinir’s limp form, imagining the same agonized death mask on Rihyani’s silver face. A deep, tempestuous rage came over him, and the world shrank to the path that led straight to the back of the scalp hunter’s skull.
Placing Meinir at his feet, he started advancing, cane in both hands like a pick hungry to bite deep. He made it two steps before his tunnel vision exploded with pain as something sharp bit into his calf.
Percy, creeping on his belly unnoticed, had buried an ornate dagger in Milo’s calf and twisted it cruelly even as he glared hatefully up into the magus’ face.
Righteous fury keeping him upright, Milo jerked his leg away, the knife still buried in the meat of his calf, and brought the cane down on Percy’s upturned face. The abused man slumped to the ground bonelessly, a deep gash across his forehead.
Milo might have delivered the fatal stroke then and there, but another cry from Rihyani drew his attention. The contessa, a second slash across her arm now, was scrambling back from Ezekiel, snapping her fangs at him but clearly weakening. The scalp-hunter followed her as she lurched behind Beli’s fallen form.
Spitting curses through the agony in his leg, Milo threw himself after her. The dagger still in his flesh gouged and tore with each step, so blind with pain and rage, Milo threw himself over Beli’s body to smash his shoulder into Ezekiel.
The maniacal cowboy tumbled head over heels, his hat flying from his head and the scalp fringe tangling. It was all Milo could do to keep his feet, his limbs trembling as he gripped his cane with unsteady hands. The world swam for a second, and at that moment, Ezekiel Boucher had found his feet and advanced, waving his bloody knife in front of him teasingly. The strangled purple of the sunset glinted like a bruise across his thinning pate. His smile was transcendentally terrifying and perversely suggestive.
“Oh, boy, it’s been a while since I barked a dude.” He wet his lips with a craggy tongue. “But don’t you worry, kid, Uncle Zeke is going to take his time with you. I’m not going to take a little bit off the top, oh no, sweetie, never. I’m going to peel you clean and do it just right so you’re still breathing when I show you every inch of your own hide.”
Milo wished he could draw his focus to blast the sadistic fiend, but the knife was still buried in his leg, and the pain was making it hard to stay conscious, much less do magic. What wouldn’t he have given to have remembered to put his service pistol on his hip before he’d rushed off to be heroic!
“The only question is do you want me to start at the bottom,” Ezekiel purred, gesturing at Milo’s feet before rising to eye his scalp lasciviously, “or go with the classic top?”
The magus tightened his grip on his cane. There was no way he could beat the madman, but he would go down swinging.
“If you’ve got to start somewhere, why not the ears?” he quipped, forcing a smile despite the agony in his leg. “I’ve never been scalped, but I can’t imagine it's worse than listening to you a second longer.”
“Ohhh,” Zeke groaned with unseemly gusto. “Now I’ve got to start with your tongue and save your ears for last. It’s going to take some work, but you're worth it, kid.”
Milo drew back for a swing as Ezekiel made what would most certainly have been the fatal slash had an empty ammo hopper not smashed into the cowboy’s chest.
Milo’s head whipped around to see Ambrose pounding toward Ezekiel.
“Again?” Ezekiel shrieked wetly as he dragged himself out from under the heavy metal bin. There was something wrong with his chest, one part of it sunken and unwilling to follow the rhythm of the other side.
Milo winced at the sight, but he had little time to dwell on the man’s injuries as Ambrose leaped forward to inflict new ones.
Ezekiel tried to indulge in more of his taunting, but he hardly had formed the first words before the big man’s fist lashed out and cracked across his jaw. To the small man’s credit, though he rocked with the blow, he swung back to spit a mouthful of blood and resume his mad smile.
“Now, this is going to be one hell of a fight!” he cackled as he fluttered the blade in front of him again.
“No,” Ambrose said in a flat, icy voice, “it won’t.”
As Milo had known since the first time he’d met him, Simon Ambrose was a man who didn’t need to lie.
Ezekiel was fast, vicious, and had already proven his knife work was lethally proficient even against a giant like Beli, but none of that was enough. Ambrose didn’t seem to be moving fast so much as he knew exactly where he did and didn’t want to be. Three slashes and one thrust passed within inches of his skin, Ambrose letting them slide by as his burning green eyes remained fixed on the maniacal scalp hunter, who had begun to giggle.
The fifth strike was never finished as Ambrose, deciding he had the measure of his opponent, grabbed Ezekiel’s wrist in one hand. Milo knew what was coming but couldn’t tear his eyes away as Ambrose gave a quick twist and bones snapped like wet kindling in a fire.
Ezekiel’s tittering swelled into breathless hooting as the knife fell from his suddenly limp grip.
What followed next was the quickest and most complete ruination of a man he’d ever seen, which the Nephilim did with nothing but his bare hands. His rifle and bayonet remained fixed and the sword on the big man’s belt remained sheathed in utter contempt of Ambrose’s opponent.
A change of grip, one sharp tug, and the cowboy’s shoulder separated with a hollow pop. Then one shuffling series of steps and Ambrose launched two stomping kicks, one into the back of each knee, and there were more sickening sounds of tendons parting.
Ezekiel fell flat on the ground, only one hale limb left to clutch at the loamy ground as the other three twitched pitifully. The fit of hysterical laughter was approaching a crescendo.
“HAHAHAHA!” On and on he screamed, his voice growing more and more hoarse.
Ambrose frowned at his broken foe before stomping down with his heavy boot. This time Milo did look away as the laughter finally ended with a wet crunch.
He spied the knife still jutting from his calf, and remembered he was in agony. The world wobbled, and he didn’t have the strength to fight the quavering call of the earth. He sank down with enough presence of mind not to let his descent drive the knife deeper into his flesh.
By reflex, his fingers reached out and brushed the hilt, but that brief touch made his stomach lurch into his throat, and the world was swallowed in a static crackle of obliviating pain.
When he came to, Ambrose was crouching next to him, a bandage in one hand and the strap of his Gewehr in the other.
“Here,” the big man said a second before he shoved the leather strap between Milo’s teeth. “This is going to hurt.”
“Whuf iz?” Milo choked out around the taste of tanned cowhide, then Ambrose tugged the knife free.
Milo was a man experienced with pain; it might not have been the worst he’d ever felt, but it was in the running for a place on the podium.
His teeth drove into leather, his scream choked by the tooth-sparing gag, and then it was all he could do to keep breathing. He felt the big man at work, binding up the wound, cruelly and carefully making sure each wrap and twist of the dressing was cinched tight.
“Up on your feet.” Ambrose grunted and gripped Milo by the elbow.
Despite every expectation, a moment later, Milo was on his feet. He leaned on his cane heavily and swore in a jagged string of incoherent profanity, but he knew he could force himself to make it to the Rollsy. Swiping sweat and tears from his face, Milo turned and was happy to see that Ambrose was binding Rihyani’s wounds.
It was also a relief to see that she had the strength to argue with him, though her voice was faint and soft.
“No, not me,” she wheezed, raising one pale arm to point at Meinir and then Beli. “They need your help.”
Ambrose ignored the entreaty and two more as Milo limped over and awkwardly squatted next to the contessa to take her pointing fingers in the hand not clutching his cane.
“Rihyani,” he croaked, pausing for a heartbeat when his voice sounded raw in his own ears. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”
Rihyani’s gaze swung to him, and for an instant, Milo feared she would sink her fangs into his face as her fingers dug into his hand.
“This shouldn’t happen,” she sobbed, a fierce light shining in her eyes. “This can’t.”
‘It did.” Ambrose huffed as he tugged the bandages tight, drawing a cry of pain from the contessa as she let go of Milo’s hand. The magus stared at five dots of blood where the fey’s nails had bitten into his flesh, thankful she’d kept herself from sprouting the wicked talons from before.
“Right now, we need to get out of here,” the big man added.
The shadows had deepened in the copse of trees to the point that Milo was finding it hard to see beyond the trees to the hills. The paranoid itch of being exposed to the enemy spread from the back of Milo’s head to nestle between his shoulder blades. He didn’t dare to hope that Ambrose had managed to kill or drive off all the ambushers. In truth, there could be enemy reinforcements closing off their retreat right now.
Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) Page 8