Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

looking for a heart and singing merrily just didn’t do it for the young and ambitious metal turks nowadays. This dude wanted my heart, still beating and bloody, carved freshly from my chest.
    We paused on the edge of the sand. The magic was in full swing. Dali swallowed.
    I carried Slayer and a tactical sword I had stolen from the Pack’s armory during the flare. I handed the tactical sword to Curran. “Hold it for a second, please?” He took it and I sliced the back of my hand with Slayer. A nice, shallow cut. The blood swelled in red drops. Dali winced and turned away. I let the blood run down the blade’s edge. My father and Greg both were screaming in their graves. I drew a two-foot-wide circle in the sand, leaving a narrow opening, pulled out a piece of gauze, and squeezed my hand, saturating the gauze until it dripped.
    I handed the gauze to Dali. She put it onto her clipboard and stood in front of the circle’s opening. It would take her a second and a single step back to enter the blood ward.
    I slapped a piece of med tape onto the cut. “Just like we practiced. Do what you have to do with the vampire. If it works, or if it doesn’t, step back into the circle and use the gauze to seal it. Do you understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “Obey her,” Curran said quietly.
    Dali swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
    We headed to the front.
    The vamp would be drawn to fresh blood. Especially my blood. The navigator would feel the draw and send it after Dali. That left us facing the troll and the golem. As long as they stood, Cyclone was safe.
    “Choices, choices,” I murmured.
    We stood side by side. “We take the troll,” Curran said.
    “Yes.”
    Once the vampire got ahold of Dali’s magic and hopefully not of Dali herself, the golem would strike at her, trying to take her out. If she did everything right, he’d fail, which would give us a few seconds for a tête-à-tête with the troll.
    The troll grinned.
    “Keep smiling, pretty boy.” I swung the swords, warming up my wrists.
    Curran was eyeing the golem. The damned thing was silver.
    “The golem is mine. Don’t screw with my shit.”
    “In this Pit, everything is mine,” he said.
    The sound of the gong was like my heart exploding.
    Magic sliced from Cyclone. The air accreted around me and clamped me down like a wet blanket, growing heavier, compressing, squeezing . . . The air lock. I froze. Across from me, Curran stood still like a statue, a small smile curving his lips. He recognized the spell as well.
    The vamp flew across the sand.
    The golem ran toward me.
    A hard, cold blade of magic ripped through us. Somewhere in the stands a hoarse scream announced a Master of the Dead losing a vampire. Go, Dali.
    The air clamped me like shackles and froze, fixing me in a death hold. Good enough.
    Curran exploded into warrior form. A seven-and-a-half-foot-tall nightmare rose in his place: layered with muscle, dark gray, stripes like streaks of smoke against a velvet pelt. This time, instead of the awful meld of human and lion, a lion head sat on his shoulders, complete with enormous jaws. Only Curran could do this: keep most of his body in one shape while turning a part into another.
    I launched myself into the air. The air lock shattered with a sound like torn paper. It was designed to restrain a panicking victim. The more you struggled, the harder it held you. But let it settle and you could shatter it with sudden movement.
    The golem veered left, heading for Dali instead. Cyclone stumbled, momentarily woozy from having his spell broken.
    The troll was on us. I darted close, under the troll’s gut. Wood or no wood, he walked, which meant his knees bent. I thrust my swords between his legs and sliced the backs of his knees. He didn’t go down but he grabbed for me. That’s right—look at me, you overgrown log.
    A sick stench of decomposition spread through the Arena. My eyes watered.
    The demonic monstrosity that was Curran landed on the troll’s back. The awful lion jaws gaped wide and clamped on to the troll’s thick neck. White teeth flashed, bit, sliding between the cervical vertebrae, and sliced the spinal cord like scissors. The troll’s head drooped to the side, dark blood bubbling gently to stain his shoulders. Curran grabbed the skull and tore the head from the neck. His face snapped into the horrible chimera of half-human, half-lion, and he hurled the troll’s head at Cyclone.
    The mage made no move to dodge. He just stared, stunned. The head