Hounded

road? « My vampire attorney stepped from the shadow of the porch into the dim glow of the streetlights. A white mane of hair floated around his pale face, which was scowling at me above an impeccably tailored suit. Not dressed in his fighting togs, then.
    The Fir Bolgs rounded the corner, and the noise of their approach became intimidating, even without the senses of a vampire.
    » I didn’t intend this, Leif, « I said. » But if you don’t help me now, you might not have your favorite client around anymore. There’s two glasses in it for you. «
    » In addition to my fees? « he raised his eyebrows.
    » No, one glass is your fee, the other is off the books for your help in this fight. «
    There was no time to negotiate. He nodded once and said, » They do not look very tough. «
    » They’re giants using glamour, so don’t trust your eyes. Use your other senses. What does their blood smell like? «
    They were almost upon us, but it was a worthwhile question. Leif’s eyes widened as he caught the scent of their blood. » They are strong, « he said. » Thanks, Atticus. « He grinned, his fangs lengthening as he smiled. » I have not had my breakfast yet. «
    » Look at it like an all-you-can-eat buffet, « I said, and then there was no more time for talking. Not one to be shy, Leif launched himself in a superhuman leap against the leading Fir Bolg, far above where his head was according to mortal eyes. That’s because the giant’s neck was actually about three feet higher, and the Fir Bolgs slowed down when they saw their leader taken down by a guy in an English business suit. But slowing down wasn’t the same thing as stopping.
    Go, Oberon! Good hunting! He loped away and I drew power from my front lawn, exulting in the feeling as it coursed through my cells after channeling through my ancient tattoos. The intricate knotwork traveled from the sole of my right foot, up the outside of my ankle and right side, until it snaked over my right pectoral muscles and around to the top of my shoulder, where it fell like an indigo waterfall to the middle of my biceps; there it looped around five times until it threaded down my forearm, ending (if Celtic knots can be said to end at all) in a loop on the back of my hand. The tattoos were bound to me in the most intimate way possible, and through them I had access to all the power of the earth, all the power I would ever need, so long as my bare foot touched the ground. In practice, that meant I would never, ever tire in battle. I suffered no fatigue at all. And if I needed it, I could whip up a binding or two against my enemies or summon up a temporary burst of strength that would allow me to wrestle a bear.
    It had been a long, long time since I had felt the need to summon so much power. But then again, I hadn’t been in a scrap like this since I’d waded into the mosh pit at a Pantera concert. Nine Fir Bolgs—well, eight now—were a few more than I had been expecting.
    I moved to put my mesquite tree behind my back as an obstacle in case any of them were thinking about surrounding me. Then I pointed my finger at the first Fir Bolg to set foot on my lawn and said, » Coinnigh « —literally, hold or detain —and the earth moved to do my will. It gave way and then re-formed around the Fir Bolg’s feet, rooting him abruptly and very firmly to the spot. To say he was surprised would be putting it mildly. With so much forward momentum, his bones had no choice but to break above the ankle when his feet were suddenly and inflexibly held in place. The bones ripped out through the back of his calf, and he flopped facedown in front of me, sans feet and screaming. That was not the way I had envisioned things working out. I had hoped he would brace himself, keep his feet, and serve as a wall between me and the fellows behind him. No such luck. His buddies kept coming, enraged rather than cautioned by their comrade’s fall, and I now had to deal with three spears thrusting at my vitals.
    Real fights don’t look as pretty as the ones you see in movies. Those are choreographed, especially the martial arts ones, to seem so beautiful that they are practically dances. In true combat, you don’t pause, pose, and preen. You just try to kill the other guy before he kills you, and » winning ugly « is still winning. That’s what Bres failed to understand, and that’s why I got rid of him so easily. Fir Bolgs have none of that pretentiousness—and even if they did, they would