A Perfect Blood

weight on one foot and looked at the chamber of his pistol. “We have a problem, you and me. Drop your circle.”
    My lip curled. “Right.” I squinted at him, listening for the sound of pixy wings but only hearing the shush of traffic.
    In a sudden show of anger, Eloy slammed his foot against the inside of my circle in a back kick and found it solid. Then his flush vanished, replaced with a smile that chilled me. Eyes darting, he took several steps closer. My breath came fast as he pulled his gun up, squinting.
    “How about . . . now?” he said, pulling the trigger.
    I sucked in my air. The line was already running through me, and I wavered on my feet as I forced it into a new circle, sweating with the effort. My head was humming, and my foot felt like it was on fire. The bullet thunked into my barrier and went zinging into the dark. One. He had one bullet left.
    The man nodded, as if congratulating me. “Not bad, not bad,” he said, and I dropped my circle, enticing him nearer. If I could touch him, I could drop him with a blast of ever-after. The thing was, he probably knew it and wouldn’t get that close—unless I made it irresistible.
    My pulse pounded as he edged forward, tense and eager. The sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, red where Jenks had pixed him, black and blue where Winona’s feet had pounded him. His blue eyes glinted as he stepped in and out of the sun leaking through the pavement grates. Lips a hard line, he pulled his gun up, smiling, showing his teeth. The gun was FIB issue, and I felt myself pale. No one was coming, and as I remembered the bells that didn’t ring in San Francisco, I reached deep into myself and found a sliver of courage. I had survived then. I would survive now.
    “Feeling lucky?” I said, and he inched closer, his arms stiff and his aim unwavering. “Well, do you?” I mocked, and his finger moved.
    The gun sounded like a cannon as it fired. Energy pulled through me, leaving me gasping as I fell to one knee. I felt the bullet hit my bubble and twang off. I lunged forward for my spell pistol as cement cracked under the bullet. My circle fell as I hit it, and my eyes closed at the sudden pain as I found the cement floor, front first. My hands scrabbled, reached, and found the butt of my splat gun. Elated, I turned, still on the ground, and brought my gun up.
    Eloy was there, and I cried out when his foot slammed into my raised hands, knocking the pistol free and probably breaking a finger.
    “You son of a bitch!” I shouted, trying to sit up with my hands clenched to my chest. Trent’s ring burned on my finger, and I panted, feeling the pain where Eloy’s foot had jammed it into my skin, cutting me.
    “Some demon,” Eloy said, swooping down to pick up my splat gun. “You’re going to be downed by your own spells. Pathetic.”
    “It wouldn’t be the first time,” I said, reeling from the pain in my hand. What in hell kind of demon was I? But then I stared at the ring, glinting with my own blood, and had a sudden idea. It would jump me to Trent, but with that net sink in place . . . it would jump me—and anyone I was touching—into a jail cell.
    Hope pulled my head up, and Eloy stared at my grim smile as I clutched my bruised hand and spun the ring on my finger to prime it. Slowly Eloy’s own smile failed as he realized I wasn’t giving up.
    He began to raise my gun.
    Screaming, I lunged at his knees. He cried out in surprise, and we went down together, me on top.
    The world spun as he shoved me off, and I took the foot he was swinging at me right in the ribs. Grabbing it, I tapped a line, thought of Trent, and shouted, “Ta na shay!”
    “Let go !” he shouted, kicking until my fingers gave way and he danced back, shaking in anger. “Don’t you ever touch me again, you putrid animal!” he shouted, and I curled into a ball as he drew his foot back and kicked me, lifting me from the concrete. Agony thumped into my middle, and I cowered, holding my bruised arms over my head. I didn’t understand. The charm was supposed to jump me to Trent! It hadn’t worked! I had spun the ring, I had said the words, and I had thought of Trent—seeing him in my mind not as the businessman he showed the world, but as he had been in the woods, a shadow crouched on a tree, wild and ephemeral. Maybe he was the businessman after all . . .
    Gasping for air, I looked up, my lank hair falling into my eyes. Eloy stood before me in a patch of sun, my gun in his