Power Mage 5
Page 24
Then the puckered-up portal popped out of existence completely, and a bloodthirsty cheer raged across the Scars.
Stokely had closed the portal, removing an enemy position, supply line, and emergency exit in one fell swoop.
Shouting commands, the Dragon emerged from cover and breathed fire again, sweeping the building with another pounding stream of burning napalm breath.
Brawley pulled Stokely down between Remi and Callie and flooded his shield with power. He drew the women close, hugging them to his naked flesh.
The women screamed into his chest as fire hammered against the telekinetic barrier. Flaming tongues curled over its edges and licked Brawley, broiling his skin and scorching his hair.
Then the fire swept away, burning across the line, cracking stones and transforming several Scars into screaming torches.
We have to end this now, or we’re lost.
As if reading his mind, Stokely reached out and swept a finger across his bloody skin. Again, the strange beauty threw back her head, exposing that long, lovely throat and making the veins stand out.
“Uhn,” Stokely moaned with a shudder, and her eyes slammed shut.
Moving quickly, the blood scribe swept her bloody finger over the surface of a symbol on her inner thigh. The motion of her fingertip sped to a blur, flicking and circling, painting the symbol in Brawley’s blood and making it glow.
Stokely winced and whimpered, nearing completion. Her shoulders snapped back, arching her back and thrusting her breasts forward, the hard little nipples threatening to tear clean through the tight white fabric.
The symbol on her thigh glowed as red as the hinges of hell.
Stokely let out a long moan then bucked explosively, pumping her hips and knifing the air with cries of ecstasy. The tight white panties darkened, and her juices sheeted down her legs, hissing into steam as they touched the glowing rune on her shapely thigh.
Stokely’s eyes snapped open, full of fury and purpose. “Hist oft oon-tadeen!” the inflamed Cosmic yelled. She tore the symbol from her thigh and flung it into the air as bullets whizzed past her.
The symbol pounded down into the pavement between enemy lines and spread across the ground, glowing like a magical manhole cover.
Order agents opened fire, trying to kill it. Bullets sparked off the glowing symbol.
The Dragon leaned into view, screeching with rage, and exhaled a blinding gout of flame.
The glowing symbol disappeared in a raging bonfire that stretched on and on and on, the Dragon ignoring hundreds of rounds raining down on her shield from Brawley and the Scars.
How the hell was she attacking through her shield? Why didn’t it block her attacks, too?
With the red dome pulsing around her, the Dragon cut off the flames and screamed mad laughter.
Her attack had burned a steaming crater in the asphalt.
At its center a crude creature the color of raw steak rose stiffly from the dying flames.
Stokely fired another burst of tangled incantations.
The crude being stepped from the crater. Bluntly humanoid, it lumbered toward the Dragon.
“Blood golem!” someone shouted, and the Order line erupted with gunfire.
Stubby and broad across the back, the blood golem marched forward, unperturbed by the heavy gunfire.
The Dragon backpedaled, shouting, “Get that fucking portal open!”
The blood golem lurched to a stop before the Dragon’s red shield and balled the ends of its thick arms into fists.
Agents continued to fire upon the golem, allowing Brawley and the Scars to unload on them.
The Dragon blasted the golem with a flaming exhalation that would have incinerated a person.
But the golem swung its lumpy fists, completely undeterred by both bullet and flame, hammering away at the Dragon’s shield. The red dome wavered beneath the blows, weakening.
Brawley did his part, as did his women and the Scars, burning through magazine after magazine, sniping Order agents and further damaging the Dragon’s shield.
Seemingly entranced, Stokely stared blankly and twitched. Sparing the strange beauty a glance, Brawley reckoned she was controlling the golem or at least encouraging its attack and feeding it power.
Stokely’s long, beautiful body shook, shining with perspiration. A strand of silver saliva stretched slowly from her bottom lip, the girl completely transfixed.
The golem pounded away, hammering the battered shield with hook after hook, swinging for the fences, going for the knockout.
Brawley could see the Dragon’s shield thinning and cracking, petering out beneath the sustained and brutal attack.
But the golem was also weakening, shrinking rapidly even as it wailed away.
Stokely whimpered as if toeing the edge of another orgasm. But as her whimpering intensified, Brawley heard not passion but strain and distress.
Out on the battlefield, the golem kept swinging, smashing its looping shots into the shuddering red dome even as it shrunk away. Now the size of a small woman, a child, a doll…
And when the Dragon hosed the miniature golem down with another blast of flame, Stokely cried out and toppled backward onto her ass, and the diminished golem vanished altogether.
Shuddering, Stokely blinked up at him.
Brawley focused on the Dragon.
That fire-breathing bitch had messed with the bull. Now she was going to get the horns.
“Back away,” Brawley ordered, and his wives retreated, taking the rattled Cosmic with them.
Brawley stripped, aware of Stokely’s appreciative stare. Then he cranked his Bestial strand wide open.
Scars hollered with surprise as Brawley’s body raced through its startling transformation.
Then it was over, and Brawley the minotaur rose, panting with rage and power, stooping to avoid smashing into the ceiling with his great, horned head.
Brawley could feel the awe and terror coming off the Scars and knew he had to use those emotions. “Come on, you glorious savages!” he bellowed. “Let’s kill these motherfuckers!”
Scooping a large chunk of rubble into each massive hand, he leapt from the charred and shattered building, and pounded across the lot in great, leaping bounds.
Halfway to the enemy line, he shot-putted one chunk of rubble over his shield. The quarter-ton slab of scorched concrete arched high into the air.
Too high, he realized. It was going to overshoot the target.
At the last second, he dropped his shield, lashed out with an invisible hand of telekinetic force, and slapped the slab down on the agents hiding behind the truck.
Their screams were delicious, as was the explosion of fear that rose from survivors an instant later.
But steady hands among their ranks fired.
Before Brawley could lift his shield, a swarm of hornets stung his furry body.
Bullets burrowed through his great muscles, cracking into his bones or tunneling through his torso. One round chewed his heart into burger, goosing him with alarm. Another pulped his lungs, stealing his breath and filling him from throat to diaphragm with a hot soup of pink foam that flooded out the fist-sized exit wounds in his back.
Brawley didn’t even break stride. His Carnal strand mopped up the mess, making him whole faster than those about to die could scream holy shit!
His telekinetic shield, hurtling before him like an invisible snowplow, slammed into the dump truck. At the moment of impact, Brawley gave the shield a powerful shove.
The toppled truck jerked hard and whipped away, grinding across the pavement. Several gory streaks marked its wake, the agents who had dared fuck with him now smeared at his feet like bugs smashed across a speeding windshield.
But a few agents had leapt from the truck with superhuman speed and were again lifting their firearms.
Fucking Carnals.
And that was bad news, since the final push had further depleted Brawley’s Unbound strand. His telekinetic shield was thinning, coming apart.
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The Dragon tumbled away, head over heels, carried by her own shield, which had taken the impact of the truck. Now, it was cracking and crumbling like Brawley’s.
Gunshots erupted all around him, both sides of the engagement sensing the end was near and going all in.
Then his telekinetic reservoir ran dry, and his protective dome shattered silently, and a bullet blew clean through his left shoulder.
Brawley leaped into the air, ignoring the bullets slamming into his flesh, and vaulted over the truck. He hit the ground running and sprinted straight at Danica “the Dragon” McLeod, whose eyes flashed with wild triumph as her mouth dropped wide open for one last fiery blast.
“Die, bitch!” Brawley roared. Dipping his head and raising his forearms, he pounded straight into the roaring flames.
Everything was burning pain and primordial terror as fire devoured him.
At the same instant, he slammed into the Dragon’s shield like a train, shattering the weakened dome.
But Brawley wasn’t a train. He was a bull.
And like the old joke said, what’s the difference between a train and a bull?
A train won’t back up to finish the job.
With a vicious twist of his great, flaming head, Brawley lashed out blindly and punched his horn straight through her abdomen.
The Dragon screamed hellfire.
Brawley reared back, lifting the impaled pyrokinetic fifteen feet into the air. Then he threw his head forward as if headbutting a shorter opponent.
He slammed her to the ground. Her side hit the pavement. Bones shattered and flesh tore, but she remained impaled on his horn.
Brawley whipped his head skyward. He felt the Dragon ride along with his horn, a flopping sack of loose meat and broken bones.
Snapping to full height, he twisted his powerful neck sharply. The Dragon dislodged from his horn, shot through the air, and slammed into his RV with such force that her body burst like a sack full of cranberry sauce, splashing the bio-plate cladding with gore.
32
Brawley roared with pain and primordial loathing, engulfed in flame.
Even in death, the Dragon was trying to finish him.
His flesh burned and healed, burned and healed, his Carnal strand strobing hard in a disco dance between regeneration and death by fire.
With his lungs full of choking smoke, he threw himself to the ground and rolled back and forth, trying to extinguish the flames.
His skin screamed in a mad chorus of pain from head to toe, hitting the highest notes of agony as Brawley thrashed upon the ground, fighting death the only way he knew how… and failing.
His Carnal force was dwindling.
Around him, the raging battle ebbed away, gunfire downshifting to sporadic chatter.
A desperate, high-pitched voice pierced his consciousness. It was Callie’s voice, close and scared, ringing with love and terror. “Shift!” Callie screamed. “Shift, Brawley!”
Her simple command hit home. Brawley opened his Bestial strand, willing a rapid return to human form.
He continued to roll on the ground as his body contracted into itself and the burning fur vanished, replaced by scorched flesh that instantly healed.
His hair was still burning. A second later, it too was extinguished, smothered by Remi, who threw her body over him, snuffing out the fire with her flesh.
She cradled his head for a second, weeping and laughing all at the same time as his hair grew back and the final blisters smoothed from his skin, leaving him whole and naked and ready to roll.
“Thanks, darlin,” he said. “Is Frankie okay?”
“I am now,” Frankie said, surging in to kiss him. She had a pretty good bump on her forehead but otherwise seemed to have weathered the storm within the bio-plated bunker on wheels.
And the RV was literally on wheels now. They needed to put on the spare tires. Pronto.
His thoughts raced over the night’s many tragic mysteries. His ambushed team to the south, the Dragon showing up here, Jamaal not answering his phone.
All questions to delve later, after they were back on the road.
Brawley pulled free of his sobbing wives and rose to behold a scene of terrible beauty: the shattered Chop Shop; the torn and riddled corpses of his enemies; and his bloodied, barbaric horde.
The surviving Scars thrust their smoking weapons into the sky, chanting, “Power mage! Power mage! Power mage!”
Only one survivor did not join in the chanting.
Stokely de Sade stood in scorched lingerie, her long, silver hair stirring in the night breeze, the angular pink welt-runes fading over the fetching curves of her lovely, soot-stained body.
Her eyes were wide and wild, her pretty face rapt, her bottom lip pinched between her white teeth, which stretched into a delighted smile as she gazed at Brawley’s naked body.
Her unbridled desire flicked his Bender strand, which drank deep at the churning pool of her inflamed thoughts.
He stared at the lovely blood scribe, and her raw, unfettered lust brought his manhood to life.
The chanting savages, mad with combat and drunk on victory, cheered all the louder as Brawley swelled to full hardness.
“Power mage! Power mage! Power mage!”
Remi, Callie, and Frankie joined the chant and gathered around Brawley, pressing into his naked body.
A glorious 18-point kill-boost rushed through him, jacking his psi score up to 259 points per strand and an amazing 1554 points altogether.
Brawley raised his fists overhead with a triumphant bellow that needed no words, the victory cry of a war god, bloodied and scorched and fully erect as his conquering warriors chanted among the shattered corpses of his fallen enemies.
Stokely continued to stare, eyes locked on his throbbing erection. Her hands smoothing absently over her breasts and down her long, taut abdomen, faint symbols winking pinkly in the wake of her touch then fading once more into the mysteries of her flesh.
Let her stare, Brawley thought, buzzed on victory and horny with power. Stokely had saved them. The Cosmic had earned the right to stare—and more.
If Stokely de Sade wanted to mess with the bull, she would get the horn, too. Only he would impale the silver-haired Cosmic on a much different horn than he’d given the Dragon.
Locking gazes with the alluring blood scribe, he crooked a beckoning finger.
“Power mage! Power mage! Power mage!”
Stokely strode forward with a devilish grin. He slid into her mind as she came to him.
The girl was boiling over with lustful awe. She ached with desire, aware of bonding and wanting it, wanting him.
Stokely knelt before him, leaned her long body over her thighs, and pressed her forehead to the ground. She stretched her slender arms out before her, crossing one wrist over the other in total submission at his feet.
His wives kneaded his flesh, excited, and whispered encouragement that was all but drowned out by the roaring chant.
“Power mage! Power mage! Power mage!”
Looking down at the long, lovely sweep of Stokely’s naked back, Brawley made his decision.
He was going to give her what she wanted.
He was going to fuck her in front of his wives and his bellowing horde, crack his final strand, and go full power mage atop the blood and guts of his fallen enemies.
He leaned and scooped up a fistful of her soft, silver hair.
But then a bolt of purple lightning slashed through the darkness, and a thunderous roar shook the world.
Thank you for reading Power Mage 5!
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Brawley’s adventures continue in Power Mage 6, which starts with a bang and hurtles toward the epic, final showdown.
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Until then, don’t approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction.
Also by Hondo Jinx
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Power Mage 3
Power Mage 4
Power Mage 5
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Dan the Adventurer
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Dan the Warlord