Page 22 of Demanding Discord
“No. No, I really don’t.” I laid my magic on thick. “I don’t have any money, and I need these supplies to save the realm. It’s better if you let me pass so I can do my job and you can sleep soundly at night.”
He lowered his brow, considering my words. “What do you mean ‘save the realm’?”
“Those damn witches on the other side started summoning demons, and they tore apart the veil. If I don’t fix it soon, Hell will implode. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?” I sent another pulse of magic toward him.
At least, I tried to.
The centaur screwed his mouth over to one side and looked at me like I’d grown six sets of ears. “Back in line or face the consequences.” He flexed his biceps for emphasis.
“You want to let me pass,” I tried again. “I’m your Obe-Wan Kenobi. Your only hope.”
“There’s no hope here.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a crossbow, aiming it at my heart.
Another. Frigging. Crossbow. I had no intention of finding out if his arrows were poison-tipped.
Reaching deep into the core of my being, I called on my fire. My insides heated, and a surge of power coursed through my veins. I fisted my hand before uncurling my fingers and gathering a fireball in my palm. I could feel the crowd forming behind me, the low vibration palpable as they gathered to watch me square off with the centaur.
It looked like I’d be giving them a show. I hurled the ball o’ flames at the beastie’s chest, expecting it to at least burn through his scabbard straps and hurt like hell. But the moment it impacted his chest, it sputtered out like a birthday candle after a wish.
“What the eff?” I shook my hand and called on my fire again. My fingertips sparked, and a tiny flame ignited in my palm.
The centaur laughed and rested his finger on the trigger. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Apparently, it was, but I didn’t have time to ponder my misfiring magic. Instead, I threw my knife. It circled pommel over tip, heading straight for his chest, but the bastard grabbed it by the blade and threw it to the ground. Blood poured from his palm, and he glowered, returning his crossbow to the scabbard before cracking his knuckles and stomping his hooves.
Oh, he wanted to fight hand to hand, did he? Well, that seemed unfair. I could barely reach his horsy shoulder on my tippy toes.
Tightening my grip on my soon-to-be-stolen bag, I took two steps backward, but the horde behind me wasn’t having it. Someone gripped my shoulders, and two sets of hands slammed into my back, shoving me toward the centaur. They closed in around us, creating a ring and shouting something about blood and tearing off body parts. I barely heard them over the sound of my pulse whooshing in my ears.
My boots stuck to the dirty floor as I shifted from foot to foot. The centaur reared back, his front hooves kicking at the air, his nostrils flaring with a snort. The crowd pressed closer, moving us farther from the exit, the air thick with the scents of sulfur and sweat.
My body tensed, instincts screaming at me to run, but the circle of spectators would never let me through. The exit stood unguarded behind the centaur, my only hope of escape…but I’d have to make it past him first.
He advanced, his muscles rippling beneath his fur, a wicked grin exposing teeth too sharp to be horse or human. I slipped my hand into the bag, searching for the set of steak knives I’d snagged from the kitchen section. My fingers found the box, but it was sealed with superglue.
The centaur lunged, hooves striking sparks on the stone floor as he came for me. I ducked beneath his swinging fist—which was no easy feat considering the span of his arms was double my height—and I darted left, crouching near the edge of our boxing ring.
“Fight, little girl. Entertain them.” He snorted and feinted, his tail lashing in annoyance. “Draw first blood, and I might let you live.”
Little girl…? Oh, no, he didn’t.
“Don’t you mean second blood? You’re already acquainted with my knife.” My fingers closed around something hard, and I yanked it from my bag and hurled it at him. A can of chili smacked him in the forehead, and he stumbled, grunting and shaking his head.
A ripple of laughter snaked through the crowd, their jeers briefly transforming into surprised cackles. The centaur staggered, his eyes burning with rage and confusion. Clearly, he hadn’t expected his evening to include a food fight, yet there we were…and I was not above adding a little culinary humiliation to the menu.
I flung my elbow back, slamming it into a demon’s nose. The guy faltered just enough for me to reach behind him and grab the mystery meat display and yank it forward. The shelving unit toppled, cans crashing to the ground and rolling in every direction.
I swiped two and chucked them both at the centaur. One got him in the stomach, making his human half double over. The other hit his horsy knee with a thwack. He snorted and stamped his hoof, lowering his torso and charging at me.
A hoof landed on a can, his weight smashing it open, spilling mystery meat all over the floor. His front leg slipped out from under him, and he crashed forward, his horse chest smacking the ground before he caught himself on his hands.
The crowd cheered, hooting and hollering as he tried to get his legs back under him, his hooves skittering wildly on a slick mosaic of mushy meat and sauce. I seized the moment, adrenaline surging through my veins, and dove for my fallen knife. My fingers grazed cold steel just as the centaur pounded a fist into the floor, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the stone.
He lunged for me, but his back legs fishtailed on a rogue can, his momentum throwing him off-balance again. I sprang to my feet, knife brandished, and faced him head-on as he scrambled to his hooves. The jeers from the crowd faded into a hush, tension crackling in the air like static before a storm.
The centaur reached behind his back, going for the crossbow, and that was my cue to ride like the wind. Muscles coiled, I pounded pavement toward him. He lowered the bow. His finger moved toward the trigger. I screamed like a banshee.
My boot hit a patch of wet meat, and I slipped, slamming the knife into his horse chest before sliding beneath him like I was headed for home base. The doors whooshed open, and I shot to my feet, clutching the bag and what was left of the supplies as I plowed toward the safehouse.
