I carefully set down the trap and dipped my gloved hands into my pocket, pulling out the case that housed my knuckle dusters. “I think I’m gonna have to kick both your asses.”
They exchanged glances, then burst out laughing. I took the opportunity to bridge the distance between us and punch Harry in the face. His head whipped back, but he held his ground, blinking rapidly against the tears that filled his eyes before slowly reaching up to touch his bloody nose—blood that was already tinged blue by the toxin coating my knuckle dusters. Thumb blades would have been a better choice, but I’d used them a couple of weeks ago and hadn’t had a chance to coat them again.
“Fuck!” Trent jumped back to avoid a blow, his hands coming up to fend me off.
“Wha….” Harry fell over with a thud.
The paralysis would wear off eventually.
Trent backed up, fumbling in his overall pocket, presumably for the standard issue CCC weapon.
“What’s happening?”
I rushed him, not wanting to give him a chance to pull the taser free. The magitech weapon delivered enough of a shock to take down not just the hardiest critter, but humans too. He dodged so that my blow glanced off his shoulder. I spun around and tackled him, knocking the taser from his grasp. It clattered across the ground, skidding out of reach as we grappled.
Like this, one-on-one, he was stronger than me, could overpower me. But my mother had taught me that there was nothing wrong with fighting like a girl. So, I did just that—slipping under his arm to come out at his back, I delivered a sharp punch to his kidneys before kicking the back of his knee. He went down, and I grabbed him in a sleeper hold, compressing his carotid artery. He tried to stand, to lift me off my feet and take away my advantage. Like hell would I allow that.
I bit his ear hard enough to draw blood and a strangled squeal before he went limp. His body weight pulled me down, but I held fast, needing to be sure this wasn’t a ploy.
“Hello? Let me out!”The trap rattled.
Long seconds passed in which the muscles in my arms began to seize, and the urge to spit had saliva pooling in my mouth—ugh. I’d bitten his ear. I released my grip a fraction, then, satisfied he wasn’t faking, released him completely.
He lay crumpled on the ground, looking suddenly smaller. I turned my head and spat a few times to get the taste of sweat and blood out of my mouth. Like, seriously? Why were his ears sweaty?
I couldn’t risk him waking up before I’d made it out of the run, so I grabbed his hand and ran the back of my knuckle dusters across his skin, hard enough to scrape and draw blood. Enough for the paralytic to seep into his bloodstream.
The specific neurotoxin was found in Sicut Mors—large mosquito-like bugs found in the western forestlands on the outskirts of Carlston. Nasty blighters. They stung for the fun of it, and although the bites could make you numb, the toxin wasn’t strong enough to paralyze, not unless combined with several other ingredients. Bunty knew the combination and had given me a vial as a gift after the last job I worked for him.
The world was a dangerous place when you had no magic to protect you. I’d use whatever I could get my hands on in its place.
* * *
I turneddown the narrow alley where Bunty & Co. was housed. A hole-in-the-wall potion emporium that doubled as a pawn shop, run by Buntington Grom, an independent incantor with nothing but nasty things to say about the Arcanus. He often spewed vitriol about thesystem, about how the covens of incantors were hoarding spells, and how sorcerers were power-hungry egomaniacs. His hatred of magic users almost matched mine.
Almost.
It was the only reason I’d trusted him with the most important job—creating healing tinctures for my mother.
The bell above the door tinkled as I entered the gloomy, slightly smelly shop and wove my way between cluttered shelves and around boxes of stuff, toward the back where Bunty held court.
A whimper emanated from the box. “Please…”
Dammit, when would the toxin wear off? “Bunty!” I picked up my pace, stepping over a wooden stool used to access the top shelves of his hoarder’s paradise and ducking under a dream catcher to get to the counter, where Bunty was hunched over something small and mechanical.
He looked up at me with one huge, magnified eye. “Did you get it?” His impressive gray mustache moved with the words.
I held up the trap. “I got it.”
“Good. Hand it over.” He held out his hands, making grabby motions with his fingers.
The critter began to sob again.
“Tincture first, Bunty. You know the deal.”
He wiggled his jaw, a sign of agitation, and lead bloomed in my belly. “You have made it, right?”
He plucked off his magnifying glasses and fixed dark, accusatory eyes on me. “You didn’t tell me the truth, did ya?”
