Hunted (The Iron Druid Chronicles, Book Six)

so that I could also pivot clockwise. My sword took off her hand at the wrist and I kept Fragarach moving, whipping it down and around as I spun so that it would catch her as she passed me by. It did catch her, right across the quads of her left leg, but it didn’t cut through bone because my strength was gone, leeched away, since she’d caught me too. The knife in her right hand, a bit tardy, still sheared off a slab of my left lat as she thrust at me while I was spinning. I sprayed blood and she sprayed ichor and we both had a good howl over what we had lost. The difference was that she went down, thanks to that hack at her leg, and I remained standing.
    It occurred to me that the Morrigan had almost certainly not used camouflage during her battle—how else would the huntresses have been able to target her right side so specifically? Artemis couldn’t see through mine very well, if at all, so that meant she wasn’t getting any help from Minerva or Athena. That supported my theory that the Morrigan had fought to lose. I’d bet money with the Einherjar that after she had said what she wanted to say to me, she had simply stopped fighting and allowed herself to be cut down.
    Artemis rolled away to create some space between us and I let her, because I wanted to check on the noisebehind me, where Diana was cursing loudly in Latin. She had risen from the ground and removed all the throwing knives, only to be skewered by an arrow from Flidais. As she reached up to tear it loose, another hit her high and toppled her backward. A shimmering effervescence in the air hinted that perhaps Herne and his hunters were manifesting to provide their promised help, though they were taking their own sweet time at it. Daytime is a notoriously rough stretch for ghosts to do their thing, however, so the fact that he could manifest at all now spoke volumes about his power.
    A brief glance was all I could afford. Artemis had regained her feet when I turned around, and considering how fast the Olympians healed, I bet her leg would be just fine in another sixty seconds. My back wouldn’t heal anywhere near that fast, but neither would she grow another left hand. Her stump had already stopped leaking; I hadn’t, though I was working on it. I stalked toward her, not even attempting to be quiet, and she set herself. She looked to be favoring her left leg, but the tiniest of quirks at the edge of her lips gave away that she was faking. She was already just fine, and the surface cut was for show. She’d shifted the grip on her right-hand knife so that the blade pointed down, and if she crossed with her fist the blade would trail behind, slashing as it went. She was presenting her weak left side, willing to give that up and take more damage there so long as she could counter with her undamaged right. Well, fuck that, I wasn’t going to bite.
    I came in hard and dropped at the last second, sliding under her haymaker and sweeping her legs out from under her. It was the kind of dirty slide tackle that would get you a red card in football. The momentum from her swing tumbled her across my hips, her right arm stretched out to break her fall, and my right arm, swinging Fragarach down, chopped hers off above the elbow.I thought that would end it, because what would she do, stump me to death? Nope. She rolled over, down my legs, effectively trapping them, and then scissored her right one to kick me in the face and break my nose. My head spun like I’d drunk way too much tequila, and my vision swam with spots as my skull hit the ground. I think I may have blacked out for a few seconds, because, the next thing I knew, Herne was shouting at me, not only fully manifested but also fully annoyed.
    “Oi, you dizzy bastard, wherever you are! What d’you want me to do with her?”
    Head pounding and spots still obscuring my sight, I raised my head to see Herne and one of his hunters struggling to keep Artemis immobile. They were both trying to keep her legs wrapped up and were having some difficulty. I dispelled my camouflage before speaking.
    “Chop those off,” I said, indicating her legs, “but not the head.”
    “I was hoping you’d say that.”
    I rose shakily to my feet and lurched my way toward the spot where Granuaile had fallen. My healing process had stopped the bleeding, but my back and head hurt, until I remembered that I could control that. I shut off the pain as unhinged curses in Greek and Latin followed me, interspersed with wet,