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Like Father Christmas in leather.
Leather and scowls.
Wonder what they’d leave in a stocking, I thought, as one of them grabbed me.
And then lost me when I broke his hold and flipped over his head, landing on the street behind them.
“Ah, crap,” Fin said, and disappeared into the well of darkness in the floorboards.
Meanwhile I was suddenly facing two levitating guns, which was bullshit. Mages only do that when they need backup and have run out of hands, and there was nothing in their hands now. They just wanted to be dicks.
Okay.
I can be a dick, too.
A moment later, the guns were still levitating, but in pieces, and the barrels were mangled out of all use. Because mages never learn: levitating weapons are cool and all, but they still move at human speeds. I don’t.
“Cut it!” James barked at his men, before they could retaliate. And then shot me a warning look, too. “Don’t escalate.”
“I’m not the one who drew weapons.”
“You put your hands on an officer. You know better than that!”
“And you know better than to manhandle a senator, but I didn’t see that stopping you.”
It felt weird on my tongue, that word, like the fake title it wasn’t. Like something unearned, when it hadn’t been that, either. The coveted seats were always won through a combination of strength and politics, meaning that I had just as much right to one as anyone else.
And might as well get some good out of it, for as long as it lasted.
But it still felt strange, confusing. And I guess James agreed. Because he frowned and looked around, like he expected a senator to suddenly pop out of the bushes.
His buddies, who had finally realized they were down two guns, didn’t bother trying to figure it out. Magical talent is a requirement for joining the War Mage Corps, but intelligence isn’t. As they demonstrated by going for me again.
And getting their heads slammed down to the side of my car, which did not seem to improve their moods.
“Unhand us,” one seethed at me, while thrashing around. “Or we’ll unhand you!”
“Meaning?”
“Snap our shields shut on your wrists, and take your hands off in the process!”
“You could do that,” I agreed. “And then I’d get the answer to something I’ve always wondered about.”
“Like what?” the other mage demanded, as a distraction for his foot trying to do a sweep on mine.
I stepped on it.
Hard.
“Whether a dhampir’s limbs are like a vamp’s,” I told him, while he cursed. “And keep moving after being cut off. If they don’t, you win. If they do . . .”
“You’ll still be handless!”
“And your skulls will still be popped like melons, so I doubt you’d care. Although it does raise the question: can disembodied hands
be put on trial? I don’t think it’s ever come up.”
Mage Number One glared at me. “You expect us to believe you don’t know what happens when you lose a limb?”
