The phantoms flittered around Woodward. One of them punched him, and Woodward staggered back. Shock slapped his face.
Iillusions had no substance. It was a known fact. But these were not regular illusions. They were House Montgomery phantoms. That punch was a concentrated knot of Augustine’s power, and Woodward’s human brain and senses recognized it as a threat.
Woodward’s construct limbs split, releasing seven-inch-long daggers. He sliced at the incoming phantoms in a frenzy. The clinical part of Augustine warned him that Woodward was faster and stronger.
Time slowed, the seconds crawling by, as Augustine closed the distance between him and the animator. No opening. No target for a knife. But Woodward still needed an intact brain and a functioning spinal cord.
He was almost to Woodward now. The air smelled of blood. He caught a glimpse of Diana tearing at the constructs. Somehow she had managed to shred both of them with her ferocity, her frenzied strikes keeping both panthers in states of partial collapse. Any other time, the beauty of her violence would have been incredibly erotic; however, he saw only blood. It saturated her torn clothes. She flung it to the floor with every strike. Constructs didn’t bleed.
Sometimes victory required sacrifice.
In front of him, Woodward swung wide, slicing a phantom in half. For a fraction of a breath, the animator’s arms were open, his chest exposed.
Augustine slipped forward, all of his martial arts training condensed into this short, fluid movement.
Woodward saw him and stabbed with his right arm, trying to skewer him through the stomach. Augustine twisted out of the way. Pain sliced his abdomen on the left side— Woodward’s blade grazing him. He’d known he wouldn’t be able to avoid the stab completely, but it didn’t matter. He had moved into position.
Augustine hugged Woodward, chest to chest, locked his left hand around the top of Woodward’s head, grasped the man’s chin with his right, and twisted up.
His neck snapped with a dry crunch.
Augustine let go and stepped back.
Woodward’s body teetered. The brilliant blue magic animating it vanished like a snuffed-out candle. For a moment the form held before the body fell apart, scattering onto the floor like a bucket of loose LEGO pieces.
Behind him twin thuds announced the deaths of the metal panthers.
Augustine drew in a ragged breath. The magic drain hit him like a runaway semi. His legs folded, and then he was looking up at the ceiling.
Something clanged. He craned his neck just in time to see the massive metal door thud into place, sealing the exit.
[ 8 ]
Diana sliced through Augustine’s shirt. It came apart, and she pulled it all the way open. A narrow horizontal slash gaped across his abdomen. Woodward’s knife had cut through the muscles of his stomach. She could see the angry bulge of intestines soaked in blood.
Panic whipped her. She took off, limping toward a small room in the corner, partitioned off from the rest of the Menagerie by temporary office walls and a flimsy door.
She knew she was bleeding, but she didn’t care.
She rammed the door with her shoulder. It burst open, revealing a small room with a refrigerator, food dishes in the sink, a stack of white towels. She grabbed one of the latter. Her nose caught a hint of bleach. Clean. She shoved the towel under the faucet, wet it, and raced back.
He was exactly where she’d left him. She dropped next to him and plastered the wet towel over the wound.
“Diana…” he said.
“Your stomach is lacerated,” she told him. “If we don’t keep it wet, your intestines will dry out.”
Red spread through the towel, and she almost cried.
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
She tapped the towel in place, trying to push it tighter against the wound without hurting him.
“You have a deep stab wound on your thigh. You need a tourniquet or you’ll bleed out.”
She ignored him.
“Diana!”
