Brul nodded. “Got it, boss.” The orc headed after the attacking drow.
A streak of green slime sputtered past Durg’s head. He turned to snarl at the idiot goblin halfling who’d thought he could stand up to him and his boys. He raised his gun again. “You’re not getting out of this!”
A blazing purple light flashed in the corner of his eye. Searing agony and purple-black sparks erupted in Durg’s right hand, and he bellowed in pain, his dropped gun clattering across the concrete before skittering to a stop at the halfpipe’s lip.
“It’s a goddamn drow, boss,” Brul shouted over his shoulder.
Durg rubbed his right hand and seethed. “I know what the hell it is, you moron. Take her down!”
The dark elf tossed magic in every direction. Snaking lines of black energy whipped from her palms, lashing out to send a pair of orcs flying across the skatepark. Durg glanced at his discarded firearm, growled, and turned toward the stranger. He balled his unaffected hand and summoned a crackling orb of green light.
The drow flung her hand toward him before he could release his spell, and another burst of purple with the darkest black at its center erupted from her fingers. It crashed into his fist and sent his spell in the wrong direction. The black tendrils of energy slapped the ground at his feet and two more orc thugs fell victim to the dark elf’s power.
Durg whirled around at the choking, gasping sound behind him and found Hamal—all six and a half feet of him—dangling midair by one of those coils wrapped with deadly intent around his bulging neck. Ceeru screamed as another black tendril whipped around his ankle, jerked his feet out from under him, and yanked him across the concrete.
“Get out!” Durg shouted.
The orc leader turned and darted toward the chain-link fence behind him, shoving one of his own guys out of the way to avoid a blast of that crackling, purple-black energy. The grind rail beside him exploded in steel fragments and cement chunks. A thick piece of it tore into Durg’s neck and stung like hell as he leapt up onto the fence and started to climb. Something lashed at his ankles. He thought he’d be ripped from the fence or his thick fingers would be severed by the metal in his grasp since he’d be damned if he let go.
Durg fought through the tug on his ankle and flung himself over the top. The fence came down with him in a jingle of links and another grating squeal of metal. He pushed himself from beneath the section that had fallen on him as a bolt of searing magic scored the ground two feet away, spraying up dirt and chunks of grassy soil. Durg risked a glance back as he got to his feet at his orcs, who were getting beaten and pelted with purple-black spells. He spotted Brul running toward him.
Durg didn’t wait. He took off for the trees and toward a streetlamp on the other side of the park. Brul kept on his heels, yelling for his boss to wait up. A few more gunshots rang out behind them, followed by shouts of rage. More concrete exploded, and the orcs kept running.
* * *
Cheyenne lowered her trembling hands and released a shaky breath. The skatepark was empty and utterly destroyed, upturned chunks of concrete and twisted metal here and there, the chain-link fence pulled down in places or ripped open. The closest tree smoked from where one of the orc’s spells had lodged itself in the bark instead of her own skin.
And everyone was gone.
Slowly, Cheyenne closed her fists and blinked. The searing rage still coursed through her, but it was less now—so much less and not nearly satisfying enough. Her gaze fell on Ember, and with a grunt, she hurried through the overturned rubble to her friend.
“Em!” She slid to her knees on the concrete, ignoring the ripping of her thick pants and sting as her knees scraped the pavement. “Ember, get up.”
Cheyenne’s hands were sticky with blood before she even touched her friend. She turned Ember over, noticing the pool of blood on the ground glistening in the moonlight.
Ember groaned and her eyelids fluttered, yet they didn’t open.
“No, no, no. Come on!”
Cheyenne’s oncoming tears burned as she found Ember’s wound a few inches beside her navel. The stain of crimson on her friend’s shirt at the small of her back grew by the second. “Okay. Just hold on. Okay.”
Sucking in a breath, Cheyenne slid one arm under Ember’s shoulders and hooked the other behind her friend’s knees. She stood and cradled Ember in her arms and nearly slipped on the pool of blood. Ember hung limp, and Cheyenne stormed back toward East Clay.
She didn’t think about how many other magicals—the first she’d seen in the twenty-one years of her life—she’d scattered into the night. She didn’t think about how light Ember was or how clearly she could smell her friend’s blood. Instead, Cheyenne focused on the faint but audible wheeze of Ember’s shallow breathing. She moved as fast as she could toward the university Medical Center’s ER.
“They just left you,” she muttered, stalking across the street. “How could they just leave you? If you can hear me, Em, you better stay with me. I’m getting you help. You got it?”
A group of college kids parked outside a bar on East Leigh Street laughed and jostled each other until they saw Cheyenne carrying a bloody woman in her arms.
“Oh, my god.” One of the girls clutched at the closest guy standing next to her, and they all stared. Yet, none of them offered to help. They didn’t even ask if she was okay.
They’re useless anyway.
Cheyenne picked up the pace, glancing every few seconds at Ember’s soaked shirt. Every time, rage flared up in her anew. Adrenaline pumping once more, she started running. Streetlights flashed by in a blur, punctured by the white streaks of headlights and
