Hexed

Chapter 12

People who don’t live in Scottsdale like to sneer derisively and call it “Snotsdale.” People who do live there tend to call everyone else “jealous.” Both groups have a point.

Scottsdale has more plastic surgeons per capita than anywhere except for Beverly Hills; some high school kids get procedures from their parents as graduation presents. Its wide residential streets of custom homes compete with one another to be featured in architectural and design magazines, and the sleek luxury autos in the garages are testosterone boosters for middle-aged men taking once-a-day Cialis to please their sleek luxury girlfriends. It’s a resort town with much of its real estate occupied by golf courses and egos.

Many of the young and beautiful egos habitually crammed themselves into Satyrn, one of the city’s hotter nightclubs. They would be dressed expensively, scented with something French, scrubbed and primped and teased and pushed-up and bedecked in just the right amount of bling. They were the sons and daughters of affluence, accustomed to excess and looking for more of it—in other words, excellent prey for the Bacchants.

After sending Granuaile home, Laksha and I took a taxi to a Target so that I could buy a couple of wooden baseball bats. The cashier almost cringed as she rang them up, keeping her eyes down and casting only furtive glances at me. She was probably doubting my emotional stability, since I had a sword strapped to my back and I was buying sporting goods at night. Store security belatedly realized I was carrying a weapon around their place of business, so as the cashier held out my receipt in a trembling hand, they showed up and escorted me to the exit from the register. I smiled at them and thanked them for their courtesy, so they wouldn’t call the police and complicate the rest of the night.

The taxi driver decided we were a pretty odd couple and kept asking us questions. We told him we were martial arts experts in town for a convention, and he bought it. Said he was going to be a ninja once, but things didn’t work out the way he planned. We had him drop us off on the far side of the parking lot, as far as possible from the entrance flanked by a velvet rope. There was no bouncer at the door—an ominous sign. A techno dance mix pulsed into the night, promising dark blue lighting and gyrating bodies inside.

“You know they ain’t gonna let you inside with those things, right?” the taxi driver said as I got out and paid him.

“I think it might be anything goes in there right about now,” I replied. “Thanks for the ride. Keep safe.”

As he drove away and I coughed a couple of times from the exhaust, Laksha lifted an arm toward the entrance and said, “Shall we go take a look?”

“You don’t need to say any special incantations or sacrifice a stray cat or something first?”

“No.” She smirked at me and began to walk toward the club.

I followed her and spoke to her back. “Come on. No circles or pentagrams or candles or anything?” I knew Laksha felt confident about her ability to resist the Bacchants’ magic, but I didn’t know how she was protecting herself. Could her ruby necklace have all the defensive power of my amulet and more? I thought she’d need to prepare a ward of some kind, at least. For my part, there was no other defense than my amulet and a grim determination to think about baseball; otherwise, I might well fall into their frenzy.

“Sorry,” she said over her shoulder.

“Wait just a second,” I said as we arrived at the door. “I’m not sure I should go in. I could be vulnerable to their magic.”

Laksha turned and regarded me with a curious expression. “Cannot you control your body?”

“To some extent, yes. Is that your defense against them? Controlling your body?”

“Precisely. I have utter control over this body’s nervous system. In a sense I am outside of it; the input will arrive—these things called hormones and pheromones I have learned about—but I will refuse to allow the body to respond. It will not be aroused unless I wish it to be.”

“That’s all the Bacchants are using? Pheromones?” I had suspected this before, but I thought there must be more to it than that.

“I believe that is what they are doing, yes. Their magic targets the limbic system of the brain in a few people near them, and then these people’s bodies—the expression is “share the love,” I believe, with others nearby, and it spreads until everyone in an area is a slave to their sexual desires. Alcohol reduces one’s resistance, weakens inhibitions, makes it all happen faster. Then they feed on the pheromones and the energy of the group, drink them in, and become impossibly strong by it.”

“That makes sense.” I nodded. “Different from succubi. But it means I won’t have any defense at all. I’m not outside my nervous system in the way you describe.”

Laksha huffed in exasperation. “Fine. At least come in for a brief look around. I will escort you out once you begin touching yourself.”

“What? Hey, don’t let it go that far. That’s not right.”

A flicker of a smile played about Laksha’s lips, then it fled as she returned to the business at hand. “Leave the bats at the door. They’ll recognize them as a threat.”

“And not my sword?”

“It’s not a threat to them. You don’t want to pull them out of their ecstasy. It’ll turn to rage.”

Obeying with some reluctance, I followed her inside to the skull-pounding thump of techno bass beats and the multicolored strobe effect of sequenced lights on a rig high above the dance floor, which was to our left. The bar was to the right, with martini glasses hanging overhead and the premium liquors prominently displayed in front of a mirror. There were a few beers on tap, but since this was not the sort of clientele that drank anything so common, the bar did a blazing business in froufrou drinks. The floor of the bar area was a soft white laminate tile marbled with wispy ribbons of cobalt blue. A few tall white tables sans chairs were scattered around the perimeter, without a single booth or bar stool to be found. Satyrn clearly expected the joint to be standing room only every night, and so it was. Three glass chandeliers with electric fixtures soared high above the bar floor, providing a soft glow in that part of the club. Separating the bar area from the dance floor were five enormous load-bearing white columns, and the dance floor was utterly dark except for the flashes of random lights from the rig. The entire long, narrow space of the club was filled with writhing bodies in various states of undress and abandon. Even behind the bar, the bartenders were shaking and stirring each other instead of customers’ drinks. Still, for all that, the bar area was more restrained than the dance floor, where most clothes had already been shed and the baby-making was unrestrained.

I felt the first twinges of desire myself and reflected that the Diamondbacks really needed base-stealing threats in their leadoff and number-two slots, because until they secured the ability to make pitchers nervous and manufacture runs, they’d be easy prey. They couldn’t rely on their streaky big hitters to win enough games to matter. They had to grind it out every day … Speaking of grinding—no. The bullpen needed a couple of solid guys who could pitch two or three full innings of lights-out ball. They couldn’t keep giving away games if the starter had a bad day.

“The lack of seating is inconvenient,” Laksha complained. “I need someplace to keep this body secure.”

“What? Why?”

“Do you even understand what I am going to do?”

“Not precisely. Push their souls out of their bodies somehow?”

“No, I do that only when I am taking possession. You want me to merely kill them. I will visit one’s brain and shut down the hypothalamus, which regulates the heartbeat, then move to the next as she collapses, and so on. Their souls will leave naturally as a result of their deaths. It will take me less than a minute.”

I frowned. “What will happen to your body while you’re out doing this?”

“This body will be in a vulnerable, vegetative state until I return—which is why I need a place to sit down.” A douche bag drenched in Drakkar Noir approached Laksha from behind, slipped his hands underneath her arms, and cupped her breasts. She immediately stomped down hard on his foot, lunged a step forward, and twisted to the right with her arm cocked, smashing her elbow into his temple. He went down like a sack of cornmeal. She grimaced in disgust and said, “We need to hurry. It’s already getting ridiculous in here.”

“Where are the Bacchants?” I asked.

“There’s one over there on the edge of the dance floor.” She pointed to a woman in what looked like a sheer white negligee, gyrating her backside sinuously against the hips of a young man behind her. She had a drunken smile on her face, and it appeared to me in the dim light that her teeth were unusually sharp. Everyone’s auras were aboil with red carnal lust.

I lost sight of her abruptly as a wanton olive-skinned girl slid up to me and kissed me full on the mouth, her right leg twining behind my left calf and her tongue darting between my teeth. There was a team sport I was supposed to be thinking of at that point, but she tasted like cherries and something else—

She was torn from my arms with a startled yelp, and my head rocked to the right as Laksha slapped my face, hard. Oh, yes, baseball. A home run would be good. Where did that girl go?

“Let’s get you out of here; you’re already useless,” Laksha said, forcefully turning me toward the exit and pushing me firmly in front of her. We hit fresh air before too long, having never penetrated far into the club, but when I tried to stop, Laksha said, “No, keep going. If you stay here you might be tempted to come back in.”

“What about my bats?”

“Get them, quickly.”

I scooped them up, and Laksha escorted me all the way to the edge of the parking lot, proclaiming that I should be safe there until she finished. And then she left me standing there uncertainly, holding two baseball bats with a sword strapped to my back and staring at the entrance to the club. I didn’t think of how unbalanced that made me look to people driving by on the street until the patrol car pulled up behind me, its lights flashing so that traffic would drive around it.

“Good evening, sir,” an officer called out. I nodded back to him and returned my gaze to the club, cursing my stupidity. I should have learned my lesson back at Target, but I’d been too focused on accomplishing the night’s objective to worry about doing it surreptitiously. Wearing a sword was second nature to a man from the Iron Age, but to modern eyes it indicated a need for therapy.

“What are you doing there?” the officer said. I heard the patrol-car door whump closed. I didn’t have the time or patience for this. If these guys hung around, they might wind up in trouble or seriously complicate my ability to deal with trouble if it came boiling out of the club.

“Just waiting for a friend,” I said.

“With a sword and a couple of bats? You sure it’s a friend you’re waiting for?”

Regretting the necessity to use some of my stored power, I quietly cast camouflage on Fragarach and then responded more loudly, “What sword?”

“The sword that’s—hey, what’d you do with it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Officer. I don’t have a sword.” I heard the driver’s-side door whump as his partner got out to join him, no doubt moving to flank me to my left.

“All right, tell you what—why don’t you drop the bats and show me some ID.”

I cast camouflage on the bats and said, “What bats?” Of course my hands were still curled around them, but now it looked as if I was just standing there with my fists at my sides. I should have done this in the first place, and then these lads would never have gotten a call about me. But I knew they wouldn’t just leave me alone now. The man with the disappearing weapons was far too curious a creature for them to ignore, and, besides, I’d made them look stupid. They’d want some payback, sure.

“Show me some ID,” the cop demanded again. He was far too peremptory for my taste. Honestly, I was trying to be one of the good guys here. There were times in my past when I probably deserved to be harassed, but this wasn’t one of them.

I cast camouflage on myself and asked, “Who are you talking to?” before silently stepping forward a couple of paces. That freaked their shit right out. They both put their hands to their guns and asked each other where I went. My camouflage isn’t perfect invisibility, but at night it might as well be. I stepped off to the right about ten yards or so as they looked all around them and called out for me to come back. The driver suggested that they call for backup.

“Backup for what, Frank?” the first officer said. “We’ve got nothing here.”

“Maybe he ran into the club,” Frank suggested.

“You want to check it out?” I didn’t like where this was going. Put a couple of guns into a bacchanalian setting and eventually those guns are going to be used.

“Yeah,” Frank said, “let’s go. That guy looked pretty dangerous.”

I looked pretty dangerous? There was something dangerous in the club, all right, but it wasn’t me. I had to do something quickly, so I decided to go the Three Stooges route, since the two cops had moved next to each other before tackling a club full of horny twenty-somethings. A Druid’s ability to see the connections between all natural things and bind them together encourages mischief at times, and while I usually did this sort of thing for an immature laugh, now I would be saving their lives. I muttered a binding between two sets of skin cells so that they couldn’t bear to be parted a second longer—specifically, the skin cells on the first officer’s right palm and the cells on Frank’s left cheek. I broke the binding as soon as it was consummated, and the effect was that the first officer gave Frank a beauty of a bitch slap.

Frank reacted as any American might to being slapped unexpectedly in the face by his partner. “Ow! You dick, Eric! What the fuck?” Now I knew both their names. Frank lashed out and laid one on Eric before Eric could explain it had been an involuntary muscle spasm, and then it was on. Watching two cops have a slap fight was a pretty amusing way to pass an idle moment or two. I’ve rarely been so entertained while waiting for someone.

Eric had the advantage in terms of reach, but Frank was much faster. Frank was landing two or three slaps to every one of Eric’s, and after a half minute of that, Eric had damn well had enough. He turned his openhanded slap into a fist, crunching it into Frank’s nose. Frank yelped and staggered backward, raising his hand to his face. It came away drenched in his own blood.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry, Frank,” Eric said, holding his hands up.

“Sorry isn’t going to make it better,” Frank growled, and he bull-rushed his partner and wrapped him up in a textbook tackle. Eric managed to twist as he fell so that he landed on his shoulder, keeping his head from hitting the pavement. They rolled around a little bit, back and forth, neither getting the advantage over the other, but eventually Frank came up on top, rage driving him to dominate his larger opponent. He landed a couple of solid punches on Eric’s face, and then they were both bleeding. Eric boxed Frank’s ears and threw him off to the side but didn’t pursue him. They were both dealing with more pain than they were used to, so they were content to lie there bleeding, sling various anatomical epithets at each other, and accuse their mothers of sexual adventures with farm animals. Good times.

Laksha still hadn’t returned, and no one had exited the club in all this time. The music continued to thump through the walls into the night, and I wondered if I should start worrying.

The police officers hauled themselves slowly to their feet and plotted to blame their injuries on me. Their story would be that I had hit them with my baseball bats, broken both their noses, and escaped. They’d get worker’s comp for fighting, and I’d get an APB for assaulting an officer. Great.

As they returned to their patrol car to radio their lies to the station, I heard what sounded like faint screams coming from the club, a high-pitched top note to the techno pulse. Laksha emerged with a wicked grin on her face, and then more people came spilling out behind her, some of them in nothing but underwear, clearly panicked and fleeing for their lives.

Laksha’s grin faded as she saw the lights of the police car but didn’t see me. She kept coming straight ahead to clear the press of the stampeding mob, and I hissed at her to get her attention.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Use your other senses. I’m in camouflage.”

Laksha’s eyes rolled up and then she spied me standing off to her left. “Ah, excellent.”

“What happened?” I gestured at the club.

“I killed twelve Bacchants, as we agreed,” she said pleasantly.

“Is that why these people are panicking?”

“Partially. But mostly it’s because there are three more in there and they’re tearing people in half.”

Since I’m an Irish lad, I’m already fairly pale, but that intelligence turned me from eggshell white to bone. Either Malina’s divination had been incorrect or a few bonus Bacchants had arrived late in the game. “Well, why didn’t you kill them too?” I asked.

“Because we agreed on twelve.”

“I’ll be sure not to fetch you any extra apples, then. Where are they?”

“I’m sure they’ll be coming out after me soon enough. They’ll be the ones dressed in white sheaths stained with wine and carrying staves. Bloodthirsty look in their eyes, chunks of meat in their teeth—you can’t miss them.”

She wasn’t kidding. A particularly piercing scream drew my gaze to the entrance, where a diminutive brunette in a white nightie had seized a much taller woman by the hair and a fistful of fabric at the small of her back. As I watched, this tiny woman—who could not have weighed more than 110 pounds—heaved the larger one off her feet, spun her around like a discus thrower, and slung her in a high, shrieking arc across the parking lot, over our heads, to land ruinously on top of Frank and Eric’s patrol car.

I almost wished Granuaile could have seen it; she wouldn’t have thought the Bacchants were victims anymore. Laksha laughed, somehow thinking the poor woman’s death was funny. We had different senses of humor, I guess.

I couldn’t stay back any longer. Not only was it clear that Laksha had done all she was going to do, but now the police would be getting involved. I had to eliminate the threat before bullets started flying and ricocheting off the Bacchants’ magic hides. There was no danger of being lured into their orgy now; the happy time was over and the madness had begun.

Still in camouflage, I charged the wee Bacchant as she tore after another panicked clubber. A second Bacchant emerged from the club, bloodstained and wrathful, eyes bulging as she grabbed a full-grown man and broke his back over her knee in one of those wrestling maneuvers that simply wasn’t for show. Too late to save him, but not too late for the fellow the tiny Bacchant was after. As she seized him by the collar of his Dolce & Gabbana shirt, I came in low with the bat in my left hand and swept her legs out from under her so that she fell ungracefully on her backside. She made the sound a cat makes when you step on its tail, and now that I was closer I was surprised at how young she was. She had probably been pretty once, with a name like Brooke or Brittney or maybe Stacy. She might have been captain of the cheer squad and a homecoming queen, driving to school in a pink Cabriolet her daddy had bought for her. Now, however, her nails were more like claws, and her teeth were filed to points, and she had blood dribbling from her mouth—and it wasn’t hers. I brought the bat in my right hand down hard on her face before she had time to leap back up. I even hit her again to make sure she was through, regretting the necessity and thinking that one never quite gets used to crushing skulls. Then I looked up to track where the other Bacchant went.

She was coming for me. She couldn’t see me, but she knew something had just taken down her sister and it was still nearby. This one had never been pretty. Her hair was the frizzy, curly kind that looks like a halo of shag carpeting, and it was matted with blood and pieces of recent victims. She had a beaklike nose, a single eyebrow above it like a malevolent, hairy caterpillar, and the same pointed teeth that the smaller Bacchant had. Her arms looked like flabby shanks of lamb, but there was a preternatural strength inside them. I know because, when I took a swing at her with the bat in my right hand, thinking I’d clock her upside the head, she felt it coming somehow and broke it in two just by doing one of those wax-off moves from The Karate Kid. Now holding half a bat with some sharp splinters at the end as I followed through, I had to think quickly as she kept rushing forward, reaching for me with a clawed right hand, and bringing her left one back around. If those got hold of me, I wouldn’t stay in one piece for very long. I shifted my grip on the bat handle so that my thumb was on the bottom instead of the top, and as her nails dug painfully into my left shoulder, I stabbed down with the sharpened splinters of the bat into the side of her neck where it met her collarbone. That set her back some, and she yowled as she released me to deal with it. I dissolved the camouflage on it so that she could appreciate what was causing the pain. She jerked it out as I backpedaled and shifted the bat in my left hand to my right, and though a fountain of blood spurted forth, she didn’t appear to feel faint: She actually accessed a whole new level of pissed when I already thought I’d never seen anyone madder.

I stepped to my right as quietly as I could and watched her scream away what little mind she had left. Regardless of her incredible strength, that was a mortal wound, and she couldn’t last much longer while losing that much blood. Bacchants aren’t great healers, and she couldn’t see through my camouflage, so I thought all I’d need to do now was wait a couple of minutes and make sure she didn’t hurt anyone else. But the damn thing took a deep breath to scream some more and smelled me.

The bloody broken bat suddenly became a wooden stave thrown at my heart, as she turned and chucked it uncannily in my direction. I had to drop to the ground to avoid it, and before I could roll away, she was on me. Quickly, I thrust the second bat up crosswise toward her throat, dismissing its camouflage too, hoping she’d take hold of it rather than groping for my neck. If she got hold of my head, she could tear it clean off. She took the bait, grasping the bat at either end and trying to wrench it free from my grasp. I held on for the first spastic attempt, but just barely. Her blood was dripping steadily down on me, ruining my camouflage and supposedly sapping her strength, but I could tell she was still a couple of oxen ahead of me in the muscle department. She gathered herself for a truly mighty yank, and as she did I knew I had to end this before she could use it against me. So when she yanked a second time, I didn’t even try to hold on but rather let go, which caused her to throw her hands up over her head as she unexpectedly met no resistance. That left her completely unguarded, as I intended, so I drained the last of the power stored in my bear charm and channeled it all into my left shoulder and arm. I rose in a stomach crunch and plowed my fist hard into her chin. The impact broke the first joints of my index and middle fingers, but it also snapped her neck.

That solved my immediate crisis but left me with several others. Completely drained of magical energy, I couldn’t begin to heal or shut down the pain. And all the weariness of my earlier casting of Cold Fire came back to settle heavily on my frame, even as the shag-haired Bacchant settled heavily astride my hips. There were still panicked clubgoers streaming out of Satyrn, and Frank and Eric, the broken-nosed cops, were heading my way with guns drawn. To top it off, I was so drained that I couldn’t maintain the camouflage spell any longer, and I became clearly visible to them. This just wasn’t the right time or place to have this fight, and that’s why I lost it.

Oh, were they happy to see me again. Not only was I visible, but so was my sword that had disappeared earlier, and a woman with a giant bloody wound was lying on top of me. Never mind that the sword was still in its scabbard and I was lying on top of it; never mind that a cursory forensics inspection would reveal that the wound wasn’t a sword wound; in their minds I had just about decapitated the poor woman with a bad hairdo.

So it was hands up, roll over facedown away from that woman, spread your legs, take off that weapon, and then a pair of cuffs around my wrists as half-naked people continued to run away, not from me, but from whatever horror awaited inside. Once I was subdued, it gradually dawned on them that I wasn’t much of a threat to the public: The public was freaking out about something else. Frank thought he should maybe take a peek inside.

“Don’t do it, Frank. One of them is still in there.”

“You shut up,” Eric said, poking me in the ribs with his gun. Authority established, he asked, “One of what?”

“These ladies in white that have been killing people. If you have to go, use your baton, not your gun.”

“Right,” Frank said sarcastically. “Ladies in white killing people. Like this very dead lady in white right here. We’ll be sure to follow your advice.”

Frank went into the club gun first, while Eric tried to take Fragarach away from me, which was resting by my side on the asphalt. It was bound so that it couldn’t be moved more than five feet away from my body, and, unlike camouflage, it wasn’t a spell that depended on my current power level to be maintained. It would stay bound to me until I dispelled the binding, so Eric was about to lose a fight with an inanimate object. He was so surprised by it pulling away from him the first time that he dropped it. He tried again, and dropped it again.

“What the hell is going on? Are you doing that?” he asked.

“Doing what, Officer? I’m facedown in the parking lot with my hands cuffed behind my back. What kind of bullets do you use?”

“Shut up. Full metal jacket.”

“Please tell me they’re copper jackets.”

“I said shut up. They’re steel.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“Shut up.”

Eric was about to pick up my sword again, but he was distracted by the sound of shots being fired in the club. Nine of them, out of those modern guns the police carry, at a Bacchant with immunity to iron. And then we heard a man screaming horribly over the techno thrum.

“Frank!” Eric cried.

“Don’t go. Wait for your backup,” I said.

“Shut up, damn it! That’s my partner in there!”

Not anymore. His partner was already in pieces. “Well, use your baton, then! Your gun won’t work!”

“Just shut up and stay there! I’ll be right back.”

I sighed. No, he wouldn’t. There weren’t any more people coming out of the building. The clubbers were all scrambling for their cars and trying to get the hell out of there, honking horns and telling everyone else to get out of their way. I struggled to my feet and staggered to the back of the parking lot, hoping I wouldn’t get run over by a turbocharged Audi. Fragarach obediently trailed five feet behind me, since I couldn’t pick it up.

More shots rang out from the club, but Eric didn’t get as many off as Frank did before his screaming began, then ended. Sirens wailed in the night, all converging on the club, and I knew I didn’t have much time to make myself scarce.

There was a thin strip of landscaping between the sidewalk and the parking lot, where a couple of palo verdes grew alongside some blue agave plants. As soon as I reached it, I drew power to dampen the throbbing pain in my fingers and start knitting the bones back together. Then I cast camouflage again and started to recharge my bear charm. The handcuffs were next. Concentrating on the molecular bonds in two of the links between the cuffs, I weakened them until I could pull the cuffs apart, grateful that they were still made of natural ores from the earth. The parking lot was quickly emptying and the sirens were getting louder. Laksha was nowhere in sight; her end of the bargain finished, she was probably on her way to the airport in a taxi.

As I slung Fragarach across my back once again, I saw the last of the Bacchants emerge from Satyrn. Her white sheath was stained almost completely red with the blood of the police officers and who knew how many other victims, and she carried her thyrsus in her right hand. I had no practical weapon to use against her except my sheathed sword, so it would have to be hand-to-hand martial arts, with one of mine already broken.

She wasn’t interested in fighting, though. She walked straight toward me after taking a deep breath of the night air. I smelled another storm coming, but she apparently smelled me, and accurately enough that I might as well have not been wearing camouflage. She stopped about ten yards away as I crouched into a defensive stance.

“What are you?” she hissed. “I know you are there. I smell magic. Are you a witch? One of the Polish ones?” She was taller than the other Bacchants and built for pleasure. When she wasn’t covered in gore, I’m sure she was quite fetching—as long as she didn’t show her pointy teeth.

“Nope,” I said. “Two more guesses.”

“Are you the vampire Helgarson?” Now, that was an interesting guess. Besides revealing that she knew who Leif was, she must have thought him capable of something approaching invisibility and capable of caring whether some Bacchants partied in Scottsdale or not.

“Nope. I can still walk in the sunshine.”

“Then you are the Druid O’Sullivan.”

She could have knocked me over with a marshmallow, I was so surprised. But I couldn’t let her know that.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said politely, then ruined it by saying, “But not really.”

“Lord Bacchus must hear of this,” she muttered, and then she turned and sprinted inhumanly fast toward the club. She didn’t go back in but ducked up an alley on the side of the building.

“Oh, bugger,” I breathed. There was nothing I could do. No roots to tie her up with in a parking lot. No earth to hold her fast. And I couldn’t hope to match her speed, pumped up with power as she was right now and as depleted as I was.

I spat thickly on the sidewalk, delivering my self-evaluation for the evening. I’d managed to make a bollocks out of the whole situation. Most of the Bacchants were dead, true, but the one who got away would bring more, and perhaps Bacchus himself, to get revenge. Two cops were dead, as were at least two civilians I’d seen outside and who knew how many more in the club. This would be major news. It might even go national.

Malina was going to be pissed, and she had every right to be. Fights in the paranormal community were not supposed to be seen by the general public. If this did go national, anyone who knew how things really worked would read between the lines and see that the East Valley was dangerously unstable.

Police cars and fire trucks screeched to a halt nearby, and one of them blocked the exit from the parking lot, corralling the last few witnesses. I wouldn’t have time to conduct my own investigation inside the club; all I could do was remove my fingerprints from the bats by unbinding the oils, go home, and recuperate.

I jogged wearily south, leaving the carnage behind, and got rained on again when I reached Shea Boulevard. There was a commercial center there on the southeast corner, and I called a taxi from Oregano’s Pizza Bistro to take me home.

The driver looked doubtfully at my sword and the cuffs on my wrists, but I paid him cash up front so he didn’t say anything. Just to be safe in case the police questioned him later, I had him drop me off near Starbucks on Mill Avenue, then cast camouflage again and jogged the rest of the way home in the rain.

I left Fragarach on my bedroom dresser after drying it off and dissolving the bond to my body. I bound it to the dresser instead. I had a whole lot of mending to do overnight, whether it was raining or not, so I shucked off my clothes and stretched myself out in the backyard to heal properly, tattoos in touch with the earth, with a sheet of oilskin thrown over me as a makeshift shelter. I contacted the iron elemental who lurked around my shop to come eat away the cuffs on my wrists, and after the rain finally quit, my mind found rest on Lethe’s shore.