by Hondo Jinx
“No,” Frankie said, sounding out of breath. “I won’t leave you, Brawley.”
“Go,” he said, flooding the word with command.
“Okay,” Frankie whimpered. “I love you, Brawley!”
“Love you, too, darlin. Now get out of here before they hit you with something big.”
The RV lurched forward.
A lean woman in black stepped from behind the overturned dump truck. The woman wore no helmet, and Brawley recognized her immediately by her bright red hair.
Danica “The Dragon” McLeod, the Order’s genocidal pyrokinetic.
Do me a favor, Maypole’s voice flashed in Brawley’s memory. Kill that murdering bitch they call The Dragon.
Even as Brawley remembered his promise to Maypole, the Dragon opened her mouth and exhaled a stream of fire, engulfing the RV in a bright orange ball of flame.
The RV lurched, knock-knock-jarred across the pavement, and ground to a screeching halt on its steel rims. The fire burst had melted the tires to smears of bubbling rubber. The bio-plate Frankie had used to insulate the tires sagged around the wheels with nothing to grip.
The Dragon kept breathing fire, trying to cook Frankie in the bio-plate oven of the stationary Winnebago.
Brawley jumped to his feet. Countless bullets, fired primarily from the mouth of the portal, smacked off his telekinetic shield.
He dropped back down again, cursing. He couldn’t fire through his own shield, which had been weakened from getting hit so many times.
Meanwhile, the Dragon was still trying to kill his wife.
He unclipped a grenade and hurled it over his shield in the direction of the portal.
When the grenade exploded, Brawley dropped his shield, jumped to his feet, and fired a blistering telekinetic missile straight at the Dragon.
A foot from the pyrokinetic’s head, the blast slammed into an invisible barrier, and a dome of red light shuddered to life around the Dragon.
Brawley’s deflected attack nailed a nearby light pole with a tremendous clang, shearing the metal pole in two and killing the agent who’d been using it for cover.
The Dragon retreated behind the dump truck.
Shit. What was a pyrokinetic doing with a telekinetic shield?
To his left, people shouted.
He turned to see a Scar rise to his feet, smiling expectantly out at the parking lot.
An instant later, the Scar’s head exploded, everything above the smile blown to pulp by a sniper inside the portal.
Another Scar laid his rifle on the ground, stood, and died.
“Stay down!” Brawley shouted. “They’re using telepathy!”
His Seeker strand chimed in, directing his eyes to the portal, where an unarmed man crouched behind the transparent shield.
That was him, that was the Bender killing Brawley’s friends.
Another agent popped up from behind the portal shield and jerked rapidly back down—but not before unleashing a telekinetic blast that rocked the line to Brawley’s left, blasting away another section of wall and pitching Scars in all directions.
A river of fire pounded into the same section, cooking the exposed Carnals, then swept across the front of the building.
The flames struck Brawley’s shield and paused there, pounding away, sapping his telekinetic force.
He squinted against the blinding brightness and intense heat. Fire guttered over the edges of the shield. Suddenly, he was in an oven, the fine hairs on his arms curling and smoking then re-growing with Carnal force only to burn again.
Fear, a thing Brawley rarely felt, rose in him then, his inner beast shying with the old loathing of open flame.
Brawley doubled down on his shield, increasing its surface area. The flames swung away, continuing along their sweeping path of destruction.
To his right, the gushing flames struck a pile of rubble, curled over its peak, and spilled over a crouching Scar.
The Carnal jumped up and ran. Flames whirled around his upper body, burning him alive. Within the tornado of fire, his upper body blackened, shrinking away. Then it swelled again, regenerating, only to shrink away into a charred stick figure once more.
The flames involved only his upper torso, spinning up from his beltline and leaving his lower half untouched. His scampering legs sprinted with Carnal speed and slammed the burning man into a wall at the back of the lobby.
He bounced away, landed on his back, and burned, curling into a fetal position. The fire finally reached his legs, which at last stopped running and surrendered to inevitable death.
The whole thing had lasted perhaps three seconds, but Brawley reckoned the scene would replay in his memory forever, set to the soundtrack of the dying man’s screams.
The gushing river of flames finally whipped away.
Up and down the line, a few Scars leapt up and fled into the darkened corridors, eyes wide with terror.
Others, seeing them break, started to rise.
“Stop!” Brawley roared. If more Scars ran now, the entire line would break. Then it would be a simple matter for the Dragon to burn them out.
The Scars froze in place and looked to Brawley, their faces twisted with shock and terror.
These badass Carnals had roared invincibly through life, laughing at fists and knives and even guns. Pain was temporary, pride was forever, and they were un-fucking-stoppable.
Until now.
The Dragon’s breath wasn’t just fire. It spewed from her mouth thick and hissing like molten lava blasted from a fire hose, killing the Scars like fuggles.
Brawley understood their fear.
So did the Dragon. Terror was her deadliest weapon. She wanted them to break. Counted on it.
“Stand your ground!” Brawley ordered, filling his voice with command.
The Scars hesitated.
The Order pounded away with heavy gunfire. A telekinetic round blew through the wall ten feet from Brawley. Debris slammed off his shield like a shotgun blast.
“Stand your ground!” Brawley repeated. This time, he underscored his authority with a squeeze of Seeker juice. “If you retreat now, the Dragon will fill the halls with fire and burn us out like rabbits. Stand and fight!”
Roars raced across the ranks, a different kind of fire engulfing the Carnals: the red-hot flames of hope and strength.
Brawley’s mind filled with the Scars’ visceral response, a united voice demanding the blood of the Dragon.
Latching onto this, Brawley shouted, “I am the power mage. Stand with me, and I promise you… I will kill the Dragon!”
The Scars bellowed a bloodthirsty roar, finding their hearts again. “Kill her! Kill the bitch! Kill the Dragon!”
Another gout of flame panned across the building, cracking stones with its intense heat.
A few more Carnals burst into flames. But the other Scars held their ground.
Brawley popped up and fired at the Dragon. His rounds struck her shield, sparking red and bouncing away.
To either side of him, Scars roared, emptying magazines.
The Dragon’s shield crackled with hundreds of red sparks, wavering before she lunged once more behind the overturned truck.
Remi and Callie appeared to either side of him, eyes gleaming.
“Hello, ladies,” Brawley said.
Then everything was fire again.
Brawley turned from the flames, gathering his women beneath him, and doubled down on his telekinetic shield.
Callie hissed, and Remi roared curses.
Brawley hovered over them, protecting them as best he could. The flames spilled over his shield, igniting his shirt.
Then the river of fire moved on down the line.
Brawley tore the burning fabric from his skin, which screamed briefly before healing again.
The flames raked back and forth over the line several times and cut off abruptly.
For several seconds, there was a surreal lull in the fighting filled only with shouted curses, moans of pain, and the c
rackling of flames.
A kill boost shivered through Brawley, who stared out at the scene, mind racing.
Down the line, Braxton had moved up from wherever Talia and Winnie were hidden. “We gotta charge them!” the King of the Scars bellowed.
The Carnals roared, having cast off their fear in favor of a bloodlust. It’s far easier to go from terror to berserker mode than from panic to calm.
Fools, Brawley thought, staring out at the cracked and smoking macadam, where dozens of Scars lay dead, incinerated into twisted and charred effigies of their former selves.
“Stay down,” Brawley hollered. “The Dragon has a shield. If we charged now, she would fry us. And those sons of bitches in the portal would cut us to ribbons. Left flank, concentrate on the portal. Pin those fuckers down and kill anybody trying to come out of—”
At that very second, another wave of agents streamed from the shimmering gateway.
To his left, gunfire erupted.
Most of the agents lurched and spun, dead before they hit the ground. The others, moving with Carnal speed and protected by helmets, found cover alongside the entrenched agents.
“Good work, Scars,” Brawley shouted.
He tried checking on Frankie but received only static from the RV. Was his wife okay?
The faster you kill these bastards, the faster you can help Frankie.
But like the Scars, he couldn’t just charge out there, all balls and no brains, or he’d get himself killed.
His mind raced. He tried reaching out with Seeker juice but couldn’t find any of the agents, let alone the Dragon.
He tried telepathy. Again, no good.
These agents were armored physically and psionically.
“What’s the call, handsome?” Remi asked.
“I don’t know what the hell a pyrokinetic is doing surrounded by a telekinetic shield, but I do know her shield has limits. We gotta get an angle on her and keep pounding until it breaks.”
A volley of gunfire popped off, and another wave of newly arrived agents dropped from the portal, all shot to hell.
“Power mage!” a woman’s voice shouted across the lot. “My name is Commanding Officer Danica McLeod. Save your people, power mage. Step forward and surrender to me, and I will spare your people.”
Her words lit up Brawley’s internal lie detector like a rack of Friday Night Lights.
Before he could respond, however, the Scars fired a volley of exclamations so colorful they could only come from Carnal bikers in the throes of mortal combat.
“I’ll rip off your asshole and use it as a cock ring and skull-fuck your eye socket, fire whore!” the last insult threatened, and a roar of uncanny laughter rippled across the line.
Brawley grinned. The Scars had clearly overcome their early shell shock. They were back to their old selves, game as fighting roosters.
But that didn’t mean shit unless they could take out the Dragon.
He still had enough Unbound force for a kill shot, but he didn’t have enough to pound away at the truck. Trying a Nina-style telekinetic hammer smash would be a waste. Even if he managed to nail the Dragon, her shield would protect her.
Judging by the incinerated Scars out there, his Carnal strand wouldn’t do him much good.
He could shift, but the Dragon would burn a super bison just as easily as she could a flesh mage.
Even with supporting fire from the Scars, his odds of reaching the Dragon before she fried him were slim to fucking none.
He and the Scars could spread out and charge at the same time, attacking from different angles. That might give them a chance. More likely, they would just get themselves barbecued.
He could splice together one hell of a howitzer round, but the Dragon was shielded by a dump truck and a dome of telekinetic force. If she withstood his all-or-nothing attack, he and his friends would be good and truly fucked.
He tightened his hands into fists.
Think!
There was a commotion behind him as the elevator doors opened, and the second wave of prisoners spilled out and dove for cover.
All except one.
Stokely scanned the scene, spotted Brawley, and rushed forward, silver eyes gleaming.
With bullets streaking overhead, Stokely slid to a stop beside Brawley, a crazy smile plastered across her pretty face.
Brawley arched one eyebrow. “What are you grinning ab-ouch.” A bullet had skipped off something, slipped behind his shield, and punched into his gut.
He could feel the son of a bitch lodged behind his ribs, burning like a red-hot calf brand.
A second later, his Carnal strand extinguished the brand, erased the pain, and undid the trauma, leaving only the odd sensation of a foreign body lodged in his flesh.
“If you want to get out of here alive, boss,” the silver-haired beauty said, her eyes flashing like knife blades in the sun, “take off this fucking collar.”
Without hesitation, Brawley popped her collar.
31
“Ha!” Stokely shouted as the hobble fell away.
Faint pink symbols rose on her flesh. Her high, proud cheekbones were covered in rosy squares and circles, diamonds and hexagons. An orgy of symbols sprawled across her forehead.
Small stars formed at the corners of her eyes. Crescent moons capped the corners of her smile like pink dimples.
Brawley glanced at the tangled symbols and looked away. Looking at them directly for more than a second hurt his eyes.
The strange girl radiated strength, simultaneously attracting and repelling Brawley.
“You’re Stokely de Sade,” Callie gasped.
“Guilty as charged,” the silver-haired woman laughed.
With a sharp movement, Stokely tore her unflattering blue jumpsuit in half and wriggled free, revealing her gorgeous body.
Stokely was long, lean, and muscular like an Olympic pole vaulter. Her plain white bra and panties were too small for her luscious curves; which, like the rest of her body, were covered in a profusion of pink symbols.
“Pardon my tits, boss,” Stokely laughed, and she lowered a finger to Brawley’s bloody abdomen. “May I?”
Brawley had no clue what the strange and beautiful girl was up to. But she seemed confident, and right now, he needed all the help he could get.
The longer this stalemate lasted, the more time the Order had to marshal reinforcements. And if the engagement really stretched out, the Tiger Mage himself might could crash the party.
“Go for it, darlin.”
Stokely licked her lips. “I’m a blood scribe,” she said, and swept a finger across his lower abdomen.
When her fingertip touched the blood, Stokely winced and shuddered and bit her lip. She let her head roll back, exposing a long, milky throat etched in pink symbols.
These symbols and those covering her fantastic body darkened, raising on her skin like fresh welts.
“Ooooh,” Stokely moaned. She arched her back, and her hard nipples strained against the thin cotton bra like diamond studs.
“Holy shit, boss,” Stokely gasped, lowering her head. She’d bitten her lip so hard that a trickle of blood was running down her chin.
Even her blood was strange, Brawley realized. Not red but purple.
Stokely opened her eyes and stared at him with an expression of raw desire that might have been hunger or lust or perhaps some white-hot combination of the two.
“Your blood is so powerful,” Stokely said, her voice thick with awe. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I hope it helps you pull a rabbit out of your hat,” Brawley said, glancing out at the raging battle. “We sure could use one. Might could even use two or three.”
Stokely lowered her finger to the healthy curve of her upper breast and started tracing the raised lines of a complicated pink symbol there.
Her finger moved deftly, though she didn’t even look down to guide it with her vision. Instead, her silver eyes continued to stare at Brawley with ravenous wonder.
“As soon as your blood touched my skin, I almost popped,” she told him. “I shit you not. I almost came.”
Brawley laughed.
A strange conversation to have in the middle of a firefight, but what the hell? He was getting used to strange and perilous scenarios.
This girl was no doubt a dyed-in-the-wool original.
“Nice to meet you, too, darlin.”
As Stokely traced the symbol with his blood, her eyes widened suddenly, shining like a pair of full moons. “Holy shit! You’re him, aren’t you? You are. That explains why a drop of your blood nearly smashed my pussy. You’re the fucking power mage!”
“Guilty as charged,” Brawley said.
Stokely burst out laughing and finished tracing the symbol with a flourish.
The symbol on her breast glowed bright red. The pink designs covering the rest of her milk-white skin faded into obscurity.
Stokely’s eyes glowed bright silver. She reached behind her head and freed her hair from its braid. Her long, silver tresses lifted and swayed as if stirred by an otherworldly breeze.
“Let’s do it, boss. What do you want?”
Brawley told her what he needed.
The bizarre beauty started spewing garbled gibberish, sounding like a snake-handling Pentecostal with a gut full of turpentine speaking in tongues.
Gooseflesh rose along Brawley’s arms and neck, and he plugged his ears reflexively. The jumbled words tumbling out of her were so unnatural they hurt his mind.
Stokely finished her incantation with a shriek of barbed syllables, raked her fingertips across her pale, taut flesh, and peeled the glowing rune from her breast. The bright red symbol held its shape in her hand, pulsing like a beating heart.
Spouting another stream of nonsense, she pitched the glowing shape into the air. It zipped away, spinning like a Frisbee, toward the portal from which crouched agents continued to lash Brawley’s ranks with lead rain.
When it reached the portal, the symbol reared up and expanded rapidly, spreading into a glowing ruby rune that closed over the circular portal.
Agents backed away, firing wildly. Their rounds had no effect on the symbol, which contracted at the edges, crushing the portal, closing it, pinching the crackling ring down and down and down until all that remained was an angry red dot hanging in the sky like the bang point of a laser scope.