Gunmetal Magic: A Novel in the World of Kate Daniels

of the snake’s neck. Next to the serpent three clay man-shaped statues sat, their legs crossed, their arms resting on their knees. Behind them a short stubby altar rose. On the altar lay Anubis’s fang.
    I shifted the view down to the huts and counted, two, five, eight, ten, twelve…Thirty-two buildings. People walked to and fro, both men and women. A group of kids carrying fishing rods jumped off the walkway and splashed through the muddy water, heading into the swamp. A woman and a younger girl cleaned fish on a wooden table. A cat sat by their feet, waiting for a handout.
    Let’s say four people per structure. That’s a hundred and twenty-eight people. At least.
Some buildings looked significantly larger than others.
    They killed four of our people. We had come here with the idea to shoot every cultist in sight. This was a search-and-destroy type of mission. I had no problem killing the adults, but nobody ever said anything about children being present.
    An unmistakable wail of an infant in distress tickled my ears.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
    Roman sighed next to me. “Why? Why do they always bring babies into it?”
    “Probably to feed them to the snake,” Raphael said.
    Our original plan waved good-bye at us, stuck its thumb in its mouth, strained, and exploded. We had to stop the ritual. We had to get revenge for Nick, his son, and the families of other shapeshifters. And we had to make sure not to murder any kids.
    “We could try for the knife,” I said.
    “What? We run all the way to the top in the open?” Roman stared at me.
    “The magic is down. Now is the best time to hit them.” I glanced at Raphael, looking for support. “No knife, no Apep.”
    “What did I miss?” Anapa popped out of thin air and crouched down next to Roman, oblivious to mud staining his thousand-dollar suit.
    “We’re going to get your tooth,” Raphael told him.
    “Excellent.” He lay down on his back and put his arms behind his head. “Go on. Do your thing.”
    “We need a diversion.” Raphael looked at Roman.
    The volhv furrowed his eyebrows. “What are you looking at me for? The magic’s down.”
    “I have explosives in my bag,” I offered. “If someone sets them off, it would buy us some time.”
    We looked at Anapa.
    “Who me?” He blinked.
    “So you’re not going to help at all?” Roman chided him.
    Anapa sighed.
    I pulled the backpack open and took out flash grenades. “Look, this is simple. Pull the pins like this.” I pantomimed pulling the pins. “Throw. Run the other way. You’re the god of knowledge, you can do it.”
    Anapa peered at the grenades. “Very well. Where do you want them thrown?”
    I pointed to the left strand of trees. “There. In five minutes.”
    “Very well.” Anapa took the grenades and walked off down the hill into the brush, looking absurdly out of place.
    “Think he will do it?” Roman asked.
    “We’ll find out.” Raphael was looking at the pyramid with the intense focus of a predator. He slung the shotgun over his shoulder.
    I pulled my sniper rifle out of its plastic, chambered a round, and looked through the scope. Two people were guarding the path to the snake pyramid, two more were up on the slope, and then one last one was only a few feet under the snake’s head.
    I took deep even breaths. Steady.
    The man under the snake’s head was looking straight at me. He was older, with a careworn face and wrinkles. He looked so ordinary. What the hell was he even doing here on the slope, trying to resurrect an ancient god?
    Steady.
    The explosion flared on the left, tearing the silence with its thunder. It’s funny how a sudden threat separates people: two-thirds of the swamp city ran to their huts like good little civilians in danger, while the remaining third, armed with rifles and bows, dashed toward the explosion, trying to eliminate the danger.
    I fired. A wet, red flower blossomed in the middle of the older man’s forehead. He pitched back and crumpled onto the clay body of his god.
    I sighted the second sentry, midway up, a blond woman, and squeezed the trigger.
    Two more shots. Two more people turned into corpses. Minimalcasualties. People like to note “minimal” and forget about “casualties,” but it’s the casualties that wake you up at night.
    I picked off another guard, close to the path, and jumped to my feet. We ran straight ahead, single file, Raphael in the lead, his knife out, the wicked curve sharp.
    A man noticed us and