Nightside 06 - Sharper Than a Serpents Tooth

There's enough money on the table to buy all of us a way out of the Nightside and into some distant dimension where even Lilith can't reach. And still leave enough cold cash for all of us to live like royalty, in our new home. So, revenge, escape, and all our dreams come true. In return for your head, preferably no longer connected to your body. See how neatly it all works out?"
    "I thought you said you owed me," I said carefully. "For saving your life in the Necropolis graveyard?"
    "Whatever small debt I may have owed you, I more than paid it off being a good soldier for Walker and defending the Nightside during your absence. I want you dead, John. I can't even breathe easily while you're still among the living. You murdered my sweet Saint of Suffering, my beloved Lamentation. You have to pay for that. I put together this little band of bounty hunters, some of the very best in the business, just so I could be sure you wouldn't dodge your death this time. Try your little bag of tricks against professionals, Taylor, and see where it gets you."
    She had a point. I considered the dozen or so bounty hunters fanned out in a wide semicircle before me, covering all the possible escape routes. Most were vaguely familiar faces, and three of them were actually famous, almost in a class with Suzie Shooter herself. At least she wasn't here. Then I really would have been in trouble. The tall scarecrow figure in Sally Army cast-offs was Dominic Flipside, a short-range teleporter. Frighteningly quick and sneaky, you never knew from which direction he'd come at you next. Whispering Ivy was a rogue anima from Wales, made up entirely from flowers and thorns, an ever-shifting montage of natural forms in the vague shape of a woman. When she moved, it sounded like the whispering of owls. And Cold Harald, dressed as always in the starkest black and white, with a mind like a calculating machine. He always worked the odds, his logic unclouded by any trace of emotion or humanity. He held a machine pistol in each hand and looked like he knew how to use them. Any one of these three would have worried me, but all of them together… and Sandra Chance… I thought about running back into the church and screaming for sanctuary, but I knew I'd never make the second step.
    "Don't even think about the church," said Sandra. "Or we'll shoot your friend."
    Tommy looked at her, hurt. "After we worked together, such a short time ago? Have you no shame? You wound me, madam."
    "If you don't shut up, I'll wound you somewhere really painful," said Sandra. "It's up to you, Taylor. Surrender, and we'll make it quick. You can go out with some dignity, at least. Make us work for your head, and we'll all take turns expressing our displeasure on your helpless body."
    "Come and take it," I said. "If you can."
    "I was hoping you'd say that," said Sandra Chance. "Remember, people, do what you like to the body but don't damage the head. Our patrons won't pay up unless the face is unquestionably his. I think they want to take turns pissing on it. Otherwise, anything goes."
    Tommy Oblivion stepped forwards. He'd always been a lot braver than people gave him credit for. His gift manifested very subtly on the air, making his words seem the very epitome of reasonableness and good sense.
    "Come," he said warmly, his arms reaching out to embrace everyone. "Let us reason together…"
    "Let's not," said Cold Harald, in his flat, clipped voice, and he shot Tommy half a dozen times in the stomach. Tommy staggered back under the impact, slamming up against the church wall, then slid slowly down it until he was sitting on the ground. The whole bottom half of his ruffled shirt was slick with blood.
    "Oh dear," he said quietly. "Oh dear." He bit his lip against the pain, and I could see him trying to concentrate, trying to raise his gift, so he could find a possibility where the bullets hadn't hit him. But his face was already white and beaded with sweat, his breathing hurried and shallow. I could feel his gift sparking on and off, but pain and stress were getting in the way of his concentration.
    I couldn't expect any help from him. I was on my own.
    I palmed an incendiary from out of my sleeve and tossed it into the midst of the advancing bounty hunters. Fire and smoke exploded noisily, and two of the bounty hunters fell broken and bleeding to the ground. The rest scattered. Dominic Flipside giggled, a long knife suddenly in each hand, then he disappeared, air rushing in to fill