Witches, Voids, and Other Sanity Suckers

The nature and equestrian trails behind us are too exposed. Retreat and regroup is not an option. The limited amount of tree cover will provide some protection.

“How should we proceed, General?” Franx asks, gesturing for his people to form a line behind him.

Leading a pack of Shifters is easy. It’s fangs and claws and causing as much damage as possible. The pack telepathy eliminates the need for verbal commands. Leading an army comprised of people with varying strengths and weaknesses is a whole different ballgame.

Ogres primarily use physical strength. I’d stick them with the more magical creatures, but ogres tend to get lost in the bloodlust. Since they’re immune to succubae, I pair Franx’s ogres with the team of succubae. Ogres view hiding as a sign of weakness so I send them on a straight path through the clearing. Plus, this way they won’t hurt themselves trying to be covert.

Incubi and leprechauns don’t socialize, but they aren’t mortal enemies. Both attack using a combination of magic and physical force. Incubi are thin as twigs, and leprechauns excel at stealth. I send them to flank around the left so they’ll come up behind the not-Shifters and cut off the main escape route.

Centaurs get along with just about anyone. I put Pernice Sutherland in charge of unit comprised of centaurs and the rest of the army. They’ll handle the right side. My people will fill in the gaps. They’re the best at finding and exploiting weaknesses.

It’s strange not to be at the front of the battle. The adrenaline sending my heart into overdrive urges me to rush ahead and join my Shifters. Instead, I force myself to hang back. The shotgun does a more than adequate job of handling any not-Shifters who manage to get through the ranks.

Pump, aim, shoot. Observe. Pump, aim, shoot. My head stays on a swivel. When the Incubi-leprechaun flank falters, I send Greta’s unit over as backup. The Centaur flank is the next to falter. Ike’s team rushes to cover their backs.

Ogres love their bladed weapons, but they don’t seem to be much of a match for not-Shifter claws and tenacity. When ten ogres fall, all my relief units are already engaged. The medical teams stay busy flitting from downed fighter to downed fighter. The pack’s medical supplies are going to need serious replenishment after this.

I race across the ground to where the remaining ogres and succubae are holding back a band of six not-Shifters. The shotgun is useless for up-close-and-personal fighting. I sling it around my back so that it’s still at hand, and throw myself into the battle. Unfortunately, the not-Shifters have a bit of a size advantage.

A ham-sized fist to the face sends me reeling. Stars dance behind my eyes. The world tilts and wobbles. At least I stay on my feet.

I slam my foot into the Fugly not-Shifter’s abdomen. That buys me enough time to fight off the worst of the dizziness. I aim my hits for the Fugly’s fleshy, vulnerable parts. It’s not a perfectly choreographed fight, but I hold my own.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the glint of sunlight off metal and hit my knees just in time to avoid being skewered. Franx twists the blade inside the Fugly’s chest before pulling it out and wiping it clean on the Fugly’s thigh.

“Thanks.”

Franx grins, displaying a bloody gap where his front teeth had been. “Good fight, General! You have great form!”

A seven-foot, snarling Fugly tackles Franx to the ground. The ogre’s sword flies out of his hand and lands at my feet. Tempting, but I know better than to touch another man’s blade.

A red haze clouds my vision. Punch, parry, retreat. A fallen branch as thick as my forearm makes an excellent club. The reverberation of the club when I bash a Fugly across the back of the head makes my shoulders throb. It’s a glorious ache.

The blow puts the Fugly face down on the grass. Two blows take out the Fugly’s knees. A good, hearty swing shatters the Fugly’s right arm. God, I love this club.

Until the Fugly rolls over and clamps his teeth on my beatdown stick. The wood splinters under the pressure from the not-Shifter’s jaw.

Fine.

I don’t need a stick. I have a gun.

Goodbye Fugly.

Before that one can dissolve into goo, another Fugly comes from nowhere to slice at my left leg with razor-sharp claws. I dodge to avoid them, but I’m just not fast enough to get completely out of the way. The sharp, burning pain from the wounds helps me stay focused. And I should be focused on the ethereal blonde woman watching like a ghoul from her position near the creek.

I shove my Fugly toward Franx. The Fugly engages Franx until something, or someone, sends it whirling back around to me. Guess the witch objects to being watched. That’s just too damned bad.

Let’s see if she’s bulletproof.

I’m within shotgun range. The momentary lull around me makes it easy to stop and aim. Squeeze the trigger and…

The shell bounces off a blue, opaque force field.

Okay, we’ll have to do this the hard way. I try to maneuver the battle closer to the witch. Five Fuglies abandon their fights to push me back a good fifteen feet. Five on one? I like those odds.

Not-Shifter fangs pierce the skin of my right calf. Blood flows freely, and I swear that my leg is on fire. I kick back, a sharp jerk of the knee, to smash my heel into the Fugly’s face. When it rises, I rake my claws across its hideous face. The damned thing doesn’t back off like a good inferior monster.

Snapping its neck takes care of that problem.

Who’s next?

Taking on a Fugly by myself is difficult but not impossible. It means taking as many hits as I give. But the Fuglies are controlled by someone, likely the blonde witch, and their fighting style is rather rigid.

I have no problem fighting dirty. In fact, nothing would make me happier. I jab the Fugly’s eyes and punch its throat. Elbow to the nose. Warm blood sprays across my face when the nose shatters. My next few shots are to the joints. Taking out the Fugly’s knees and elbows incapacitates it. I sever its jugular with my claws.

Greta howls. The fur across her midsection is matted with blood. Her face is red and a chunk is missing out one of her ears. Ike flies to his wife’s aid like a furry rocket. He rips into the Fugly with a ferocity I’ve never seen. A not-Shifter leg sails through the air to land at my feet. Greta shows her appreciation by nipping her husband’s tail.

Shoulda known better than to take Greta’s kill.

The fight spreads across the field. As more and more Fuglies disappear, the numbers definitely shift in our favor. At this rate, we’ll be done in time for dinner. Assuming Greer doesn’t drown me in paperwork afterwards.

Something sweet and floral cuts through the nearly overwhelming tang of blood. Magnolias? In the park? I stop batting around my Fugly long enough to peer at the entrance to the clearing. My moment of distraction allows the Fugly to wrap one hand around the back of my neck. Before I can shake him off and get back to pounding his face, an enraged ocelot slams into the Fugly’s side.

Thank you, Jose. There’s a newcomer to our party that I need to deal with.

A newcomer who, last I checked, was doing her best Rip Van Winkle impression.