Page 89 of Throwing Fire

Against only two opponents, I know Kez will change tactics. Anticipating her move, I draw my second kukri back for an underhand throw. Kez will aim for the neck. If the gator-man slithers aside, I want a body-shot to take him down.

Kez twirls the second monofilament over her head. It’s the same move she uses for the infinity loop, but at the end of the second arc, she opens her hand. The monofilament fans brightly through the air. That twirl of light carves open the gator-man’s scaly, muscular shoulder as he twists to avoid it. Painful, and it’s a good bet he won’tbe able to use the arm, but it’s not a wound that will immediately kill him.

I finish the fucker off.

He turns straight into my throw. The kukri carves through the pale scales, into his soft, ribbed belly. The force of the throw and the sharpness of the blade tear the gator-man open from navel to sternum. Blood and grey ropes of intestine spill out of the wound and tumble into the murky water. The stink of lizardy bowels claws up my nose and down my throat.

Next to me, Kez gags, and her shield falters. The gator-man she was holding off lunges for her throat. His swiping claws catch her upper arm, opening long gashes that fill with blood, black in the stark light of the remaining monofilament. Kez curses with the sudden pain.

I side-step, drawing the katanas over my shoulders as I move around Kez. She slides aside, still whirling the monofilament.

I spin to avoid her shield and for momentum as I complete the draw, swinging the katanas in wide arcs. Their razor blades sing through the air, cleaving through skin, muscle and bone. They snick to my sides in twin arterial sprays. Glistening membranes slide across the gator-man’s eyes. Once, twice. Then his body drops into the water; his head creates a second, smaller splash.

I scan the tunnel for any further gator-men. Listen hard. The only sounds are Kez’s harsh breathing, and the lap of water. I turn to my kitten as a new hiss fills the tunnel, but it’s only Kez spraying her wounds with newskin. I look around for Match and Acker.

They’re standing a few steps away. Match has his flamethrower pointed in my direction, but it’s not even lit. Acker’s scythe hangs loose in his paws.

I raise my blood-streaked blades. “You waitin’ for a fuckin’ invitation?”

“When the Whites named you Reaper-Man—” Acker shakes his head.

Beside me, Kez snorts. “Doesn’t really do him justice, does it?”

Amateurs. I turn my back on the rat-men and check Kez’s arm. She knows what she’s doing but newskin needs a good seal to work, so it never hurts to have a second set of eyes on it. I also want to make sure there’s no sign of poison, since you never know what’s on a mutant lizard’s claws. Some germ-killer wouldn’t hurt, either, given where those claws have been.

“Solid?” she asks when she finishes spraying.

“Solid. How’re you doin’?” I don’t ask if she’s okay, because I know she won’t be. My kitten’s not a killer. Even defending herself haunts her.

She nods. “Good to go.”

My tough kitten. I shake the katanas. Rinsing them in the sewer will only make them dirtier. I’ll need to clean them later. I sheathe the swords, retrieve my kukris and the bags. Do a quick check of the gear. The bags are waterproof so nothing inside’s been damaged by the dunking. The bags themselves are a loss, but so’s everything we’re wearing. Sewer’s a smell that don’t come out.

While I’m checking the gear, Kez stows her last monofilament, winding it around her wrist bracer and doing whatever she does to kill its glow. The tunnel dims to shades of grey.

I take Kez’s hand and put it on my bag so she can follow me again, then I lead her the few steps to the rat-men. Match sets off before I reach them, but Acker waits and when I draw up to him, he grabs my shoulder.

“I would never be your enemy,” he says.

That ain’t the same thing as being my friend. “Me, neither.”

“As long as we understand each other.”

I nod, but I’m not sure we do.

He moves off after Match, wading swiftly despite the knee-deep water. He’s sheathed his scythe. Guess it doesn’t make much difference if he’s not going to fucking use it when the shit hits the turbo-fan. I keep a kukri out.

CHAPTER 33

After another klick of wading, Kez starts to pull on the bag over my shoulder.

My thighs are a solid knot of flame, so it doesn’t surprise me that she’s flagging, although my kitten has some serious stamina. I’m tempted to throw my kukri at Acker’s head to get his attention but settle for growling his name instead.

The rat-men stop and let us catch up with them. “How much further?” I whisper.

Acker’s black eyes flick from my face to Kez’s and back. “Let me carry your burden, Lightfoot,” he offers.

If he’s not going to be any use in a fight, he can carry the luggage. “Give it to him,” I say.

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