Draco Malfoy and his Slyther-shits must have been a few sheets to the wind, too, because they didn’t react near quick enough to prevent me from standing, which took around thirty-two minutes.
Honestly, I felt more exhausted than I did drunk. I think the healing spell had sapped the last of my reserves. The world tilted and swayed, and I had a hard time standing straight. Draco’s bulbous face smeared across the night sky, breaking into three smudgy heads.
A fist with twenty knuckles smashed into my nose, snapping the world back into focus. Blood poured down my clothes and adrenaline pumped through my veins, allowing a surge of magic.
“Shit,” I said, grabbing my face. “Oh wait. Never mind. I thought this was my favorite shirt, but…” I chuckled. “It doesn’t even belong to me.”
I reached for the new current of energy to enhance my perception and reflexes, then halted. Would using magic to bolster my physical abilities breach my pact with Hephaestus? Then I remembered I didn’t give a shit as that ship had long ago sailed away. The First Law of magic stated that I couldn’t use my power to harm Sheep. But I could use a protective ward. Problem was, Hephaestus imbued me with fire magic, and most protection spells involving that element are flame shields of some kind. So, even my warding magic would inadvertently harm the Sheep.
The doughnut man swung at me again, but this time—still without my magically enhanced ability—I dodged easily, sidestepping and slamming my elbow into his forehead. It split open, spilling blood into his eyes and down his cheeks. A nasty affair. He bled like a slaughtered hog—but, in his defense, he sort of looked like one.
His three friends hesitated before jumping at me. They kicked and punched like it was their first time—timid, respectful, not wanting to hurt me. I appreciated their tenderness. One of them bit at my forearm and clawed at my neck. Not to make the experience weird or anything, but I hadn’t experienced teeth and claws since Callie’s death, and I didn’t mind it at all. Well, not at first.
I covered my face with my arms after another punch split my lip. One of the men tackled me. I landed on my shoulder and my head whiplashed against the cement sidewalk as a quick barrage of kicks bludgeoned my torso.
The assault stopped, finding me curled into a fetal position—hey, they say it’s the best way to counter a bear attack. I lowered my arms from my face and glanced up to see the ogreish bouncer from the lounge breaking up the fight. Xander’s bulky silhouette stood behind the bouncer, somehow shadowing him. Had he summoned the man instead of jumping into the brawl? It seemed like something that prude would do.
“Back away,” the bouncer said, clearing bodies.
Still lying on the cool cement, I decided to stay there. Why get up, anyway?
The bouncer faced the gang leader, the chubby man with the bloodied forehead. “What happened here?”
The man, eyes blinking away the blood from his forehead, shook his head, flopping his jowls back and forth. “I don’t know. We were walking out of the bar, and he... he was just waiting for us. You saw him at the bar, the way he threatened me.”
I couldn’t help it. “Bullshit,” I said, chuckling on the ground. That hurt my ribs, and my laughter turned to groaning. A wad of chewed gum lay stuck to the cement near my face. “You think this is still good?”
Teletubby decided to ignore me. “He must have waited outside for us to leave. Jumped me immediately, and—and he did this.” The man pointed at his bouldered head. “Fuck, I think I need stitches.”
“Sir,” Xander said, stepping toward the bouncer. “That’s not the truth.”
“Why’s he on the ground, then, getting kicked around by these three?” the bouncer asked Draco.
“My friends… they had to pry him off of me,” the man said. “I swear. We were leaving, ready to go home. You know me, Mason. You know I’m not a fighter. Did you see him a few minutes ago, in the bar? The way he threatened me? He planned this. Waited for me.” The man pressed his hand against his cut forehead and grimaced.
“He’s lying,” Xander said again. “Joey and I were sitting on the curb when these four surrounded us.” He glanced around the sidewalk, up at the roofs of the buildings. “There has to be a camera around here somewhere. I’m sure you could just watch what happened.”
The bouncer—Mason, apparently—regarded one of the other men, a block-headed gentleman breathing heavily. “This man attack you, too?” he asked, gesturing toward Xander. Slowly, the bouncer shook his head, as if cueing Mr. Blockhead his lines.
“No,” Blockhead said. “Just that one.” He pointed at me.
I smiled at him, hoping my teeth were good and bloody.
Flashing blue and red lights strobed around the corner, and a Sheriff’s squad car pulled up to the sidewalk. A man wearing a tan uniform stepped out of the vehicle and approached the scene. He had a blonde caterpillar mustache and looped his thumbs into his utility belt. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I received a call about a disturbance. Is everything okay?”
“No,” Xander said, stepping in front of the bouncer. “These men attacked my friend.” He pointed at me.
I waved at the deputy with my fingers. “Deputy,” I said, squinting to read his nametape, “Aarseth. I’m glad to see you’re keeping your lip warm on this cold night.”
“The deputy glared at me before turning his attention to Xander. “You in charge here?”
Xander licked his lips. “No,” he said.
“Who is?”
“I am, sir,” the bouncer said, stepping around Xander and making himself known to the deputy. “Mason Orson. I work security at the lounge.”
The pain that coursed through my body ebbed a little, and a trickle of energy returned to
