Night Rune (Prof Croft Book 8) by Brad Magnarella (best e reader for academics txt) 📕

Her lips drew from her sharp teeth, but I could see her mind working behind her eye. A constellation of burns marred her scaly skin, some fresh, others healing. Places she’d been electrocuted. From off stage, a string of yelps were punctuated by the satisfying sound of goblin fists pounding soft flesh.

That’s right, you son of a bitch.

Turning my hand around, I showed Gorgantha the faint lines of the druid bond. “This was our symbol. You have one too. Below the webbing of your thumb.” I nodded at the hand planted against the floor. But she kept her wary eye fixed on mine, as if ready to launch herself at the least provocation.

We remained like that for several moments. Then I had the idea to push power into my symbol. For the first time since returning to the time catch, faint white light pulsed along the lines. A moment later, the symbol on Gorgantha’s hand glowed softly.

Holy crap, the bond still works.

With the disruption of ley energy, it must have required proximity.

Behind me, I heard Bree-yark returning. “That almost makes up for the satyr,” he muttered.

He was dragging the unconscious barker from the wing of the stage, and he’d not gone easy on him. Dropping the bloodied man, he peered up and froze. On the balcony levels, uniformed men were spreading toward the railings. The ushers may have been willing sluggers, but the museum’s hired security were armed with revolvers.

“Step away from the mermaid!” one of them ordered, aiming his weapon.

With an uttered Word, I shaped a defensive wall across the front of the stage. In the distance, alarm bells clanged throughout the museum. I thought about Caroline, reassuring myself that she could blend in with the crowds and escape. But Bree-yark and I were three floors up with more security en route.

“There’s a back way.”

Gorgantha was standing now, water dripping from her talons. She’d wiped the hair from her face so both eyes were visible again. Though they still lacked recognition, they appeared to hold more trust.

She cocked her head. “Over there.”

“Lead the way,” I said.

She took off toward the side of the stage, webbed feet slapping wood. Gunfire began popping behind us. I winced from the impacts against my shield, but it held until we were out of range. We raced past a line of stage props, including Mimi’s and Biggs’s chairs, and through a set of double doors, which I sealed behind us.

We were in a large gaslit room where the water tank must have been stored. There was a second, much smaller tank near the far wall, and I shuddered to think it had held Gorgantha when she wasn’t performing. Just looking at it made me claustrophobic. A crane with a pile of netting stood near some long-handled brushes and shelves of bottled chemicals that leaked a stringent stench.

Gorgantha pointed out a door to our right. “Jokers who fed me came in and out through there. The fish were always spoiled,” she added in a mutter.

“I’ll check it out,” I said, anticipating a stairway down to a back alley or loading area.

A thunk sounded, and a knife appeared above the door handle. I yanked my arm back and spun. The next blade punctured my billowing coat below the armpit and implanted itself beside the first knife. I darted for cover, but my pinned coat jerked me back against the door, and my cane clattered to the floor.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

When I stretched for my cane, a third knife punched through the other side of my coat, and my cane rolled out of reach.

“Pretty ballsy trying to steal off with the main attraction,” the knife juggler said. He had entered from a back door partially blocked from view by the small tank. Another knife was flexed above his supple wrist while eight or nine more flickered in the light of the gas lamps from a belt around his waist.

“She’s a friend,” I growled.

“She fills seats,” he countered.

His twin emerged from behind him, his knife cocked at Bree-yark. “Yeah, puts bacon on our tables.”

“Then maybe you should make nice with the local butcher,” Bree-yark snarled, “’cause she’s coming with us.” His goblin blade was drawn, but at his distance, he would absorb a dozen knives before he got within striking range. The jugglers apparently had the same read, because they smirked in response.

“Put that away, kid,” one of them said, “before you hurt yourself.”

“Oh, I’ll put it somewhere all right,” Bree-yark promised, but stayed put.

A lanky sword swallower with a shock of blond hair stepped between the jugglers, wielding a blade almost as long as he was tall. His grin was cold-blooded. With Bree-yark and me covered, he circled Gorgantha.

“All right, lovely,” he said, slapping her thigh with the flat of his sword. “Fun and games are over. Back into the tank.”

24

I looked over the preposterous scene—we were being schooled by the opening act, for crissakes—but the danger was real. The jugglers could release their blades in the time it took to blink, and with lethal accuracy. And I didn’t like the sadistic grin on the sword swallower’s face. But while they’d been talking, I’d been gathering energy, rehearsing the invocations I would need to cast in rapid succession.

When Bree-yark glanced over at me, I returned a nod.

In the next moment, my cane rattled over the floor and leapt into my outstretched hand. “Protezione!” I shouted.

The juggler’s arriving knife broke through the still-forming shield, but the invocation was enough to alter the knife’s spin and trajectory. The handle struck my shoulder and bounced to the floor.

Bree-yark used the distraction to put the small tank between himself and the other juggler. A knife spun past him. The twins rearmed, blades flashing from belts, but I’d already formed the next invocation in my mind. I allowed the barest moment for energy, breath, and intention to align before releasing the Word.

“Vigore!”

The force split from my cane and into