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“Homunculus,” Pritkin breathed, without my having to ask.
Not that it helped.
“What?” I demanded, suddenly more angry than anything else. Because no, just no. The universe kept throwing these curveballs at me, and I was mostly going with it, but not when it came down to decapitated robots. I had principles. I had standards. I had—
A face full of muck when Pritkin suddenly shoved me back down.
Something flashed and something sizzled. And it looked like the Tin Man managed just fine with those shears of his, after all. Because when I looked up, I was seeing the world through more than a veil of mud. A bunch of glowing, golden strands had woven themselves around us, hovering maybe an arm’s length away in a nice, neat circle. Like we were the catch of the day.
Which, okay, yeah.
“Pritkin . . .”
“When I tell you to run,” he said calmly, never taking his eyes off the creature, “go for the trees. Don’t stop and don’t look back.”
I didn’t bother arguing, since I didn’t see a way for either of us to go anywhere. “And how do we lose the net?”
“Like this!” he said, and gave me a shove.
And suddenly, the net looked like another balloon, one that had just been pricked with a pin. I had maybe a second to realize that it had been caught on the outside of Pritkin’s shields, and that by popping them, he’d bought us a couple of seconds to slide underneath the floaty wisps that were falling down on every side like a spiderweb. And then I was scrambling on my belly through the mud, and lurching to my feet and starting to run—
And realizing that he wasn’t behind me.
I spun to see him fighting with the net, part of which had caught the back of his shirt. That wouldn’t have been a big deal, but the other half had adhered to the ground, and it must have found a better hold than the slimy leaves. Because his best efforts were only stretching it, like bubble gum between a sidewalk and a shoe, and he wasn’t going anywhere.
“Go!” he told me, furious, when I turned to help, maybe because the Tin Man had started lumbering down the slope, with the clumsy-cute gate of a toddler just learning to walk. A manic toddler armed with deadly blades and potion bombs.
Or maybe there was another reason, I thought, as the air rippled by my left ear. Something hit the muck in front of me, and something else failed to hit me between the eyes. Because I’d already rediscovered the ground.
I might not know how to deal with magic robots, but I understood bullet etiquette just fine.
Pritkin cursed and dove down beside me. “Now what?”
“I told you,” I hissed, grabbing his lapel. “Tony’s boys. Now lose the damned shirt!”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” he snarled. And then “Don’t touch it!” as I recognized the problem. A filmy strand had wrapped its way across the front of his clothes, as well. Which wouldn’t have been an issue except for all the guns and belts and holsters he had holding said clothes to his body. And the fact that the strand appeared to have the tensile strength of solid steel.
“Take them off!” I told him, grabbing the front of his jeans. “Take everything off!”
“I’m trying!”
“Try harder!” I said as he jerked to the left, sliding us around in a half circle on the slimy ground, just before another potion bomb exploded where we’d been sitting. Fortunately, it hit a rock and flowed the other way, trapping maybe three yards’ worth of leaves and making it look like a giant spider had been nesting in the area. And it was only going to get worse.
Pritkin must have thought the same, because he grabbed my hands, which had somehow gotten his belt off and were working on the bandolier, and shook me hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Get out of here!”
“Make me!” I snarled, and ripped the bandolier off, roughly enough to make him curse.
Too bad; he’d recover from some bruises. Unlike other things, I thought, glancing up to see that the toddler two-step covered ground pretty damned fast. And worse, the creature was rearing back to throw again, and we were running out of places to go.
I did what I should have done before and snatched one of the guns from Pritkin’s belt. It looked like a .22, little and silver colored and unremarkable. It didn’t look like it had any business fighting anything, much less demons. But maybe it would slow that thing down.
Only not if it was slammed to the ground first.
“What are you doing?” I demanded as Pritkin glared at me. “Shoot the damned thing!”
“Yes, shooting something made out of battle potions is a good plan,” he snarled.
Only it looked like somebody else thought so. The words had barely left his mouth when something pinged off the Tin Man’s shiny chest plate. And then something else ripped off its hat. And then Pritkin cursed and grabbed me.
