Raccoon slammed home war-grade X-stat into his own chest wound. Followed it by shoving a crystal into the hole.
Both of Ravensport’s knees buckled. EJ flipped his sword and cut through her throat. The blade caught in her cervical spine. She hit the floor.
Her fall ripped his sword from his hand.
Raccoon fired. Head shots. Both eyes. “Bitch is hard to kill,” the shooter said.
“Hell’s hounds,” Boots said. He’d heard that note before. ThatI’m dyingnote.
EJ spun, scanning the room.
Sheathed his sword and caught Boots before she hit the floor face-first.
She wasn’t a small woman. He staggered. Her blood gushed over him.
He managed to get her flat on the floor, faceup. Her lips were going blue. Skin white as fresh snow. About ten seconds from shock and ten more from death. Bleeding out.
Every moment went crystal clear. Sharp. Distinct. Microseconds of battle. Everything happening at once.
Gunshots from the other entrance.
His ear-patch damped the concussive bursts, but let in other sounds.
Walter screaming.
A vampire ululating in a death wail. The notes stretched out in time.
His sister saying something…
The howling of demon magic. Broken, perverse. If torture were music, if medieval dungeons had a sound, it would be this.
Screams. Splintered melody. An entire orchestra playing in different keys, all untuned. Dented cymbals. Shattered crystal. The roar of icebergs calving.
“I’m cover,” Raccoon grunted. He shifted with a pained groan. Changed out magazines. Aimed into the room. Fired one shot. Another. Slow. Careful.
EJ concentrated on Boots. Just Boots. Blocked out everything else.Avulsion. Blade sliced away half her thigh. Hit femoral artery.Entire muscle groups are peeled away.
It was a cut vamps used often.
He applied pressure at her groin. Hard. One-handed. With his other, he unpocketed a roll of X-stat and opened it by gripping the bag with his teeth. He shoved the length into the avulsion. Dropped in threetrauma-healingamulets.Not sterile, his mind informed him.Later worries. He tucked in three of his strongestblood-clottingamulets. Peeled the muscle back over it all.
“You dying?” he asked of Raccoon.
“I could use a beer and a recliner,” the shooter croaked.
EJ took that as, “possibly, but not imminent.” Almost as fast as vamps, he bound the avulsion with sticky wrap and laid an amulet on Boots’s forehead. If she wasn’t unconscious from the trauma, she was asleep now. He lifted both legs and slid a stool under her knees.
Fifteen seconds had passed since the door blew open. Forever in battle.
He looked around. Absorbed every action. Evaluated.
Raccoon had taken care of his own wounds. The melody of the healing crystal proclaimed it was an Everhart quartz. Worth its weight in gold. The shooter changed out magazines.
The amulets EJ had tucked into the flap of muscle in Boots’s thigh had been better than Raccoon’s. They werehis. They sang. But the pressure to the groin was paramount. Boots wouldn’t live if he let go. None of them would live if he didn’t let go and fight.
Wordless, seeming to read his mind and knowing he was no longer battle capable, Raccoon scooted over and replaced EJ’s bloody hand with his own. Applied pressure to Boots’s femoral artery. “Go,” he said.
EJ rose to a low squat. Unsheathed his sword. Across the circle, his sister stood, the null-demon-sucking staff outstretched.
