Whap! The beanbag punched Dawn’s hip as she hit the floor. Shit. And ouch. Time for a new plan.
Before Kiko could get off a shot and Breisi could reload, Dawn opened her eyes and unwound a chain from around her waist. A nine-section whip chain, to be precise.
Holding the handle with her right thumb and forefinger, she coiled the steel-linked bars in her left hand. In a flash, she transferred the bundled chains to her right while securing her grip on the handle. Then, with a push, she sprung the whip outward.
Without pause, she was already cycling the weapon by her side, using a right elbow hook spin to create a blurred bubble around her body. The bars and links moved that fast.
Sure enough, Kiko’s beanbag glanced off the steel arc.
“Dawn,” Breisi yelled from the left. Her tone was laced with a heavier Spanish accent than usual, so she was clearly pissed. “I guess this means we’re done.”
“Aw, no, I wanna see this,” Kiko said. “She’s been practicing hard.”
Just to be an ornery hot dog, Dawn spun the whip once overhead, winding up, then launched into a butterfly kick, circling the links beneath her body while jumping. She landed on her feet, grinning at Breisi and slowing the whip down. At the apex of its spin, she allowed it to fall gently back into her hand. There, the weapon rested like a happy snake that had struck out to get the best of Breisi and her damned beanbags.
“I thought I’d give my new toy a first run,” Dawn said. She felt good about it, too, even though her right arm ached a little from the injuries she’d sustained during the throw down with Robby Pennybaker.
Breisi leaned against a mirrored wall, hand on one hip, beanbag gun at ease in the other. With her Louise Brooks–black hair, broad yet delicate features, and Mickey Mouse T-shirt—Dawn had just weaned the woman off those dorky teddy bear prints—you’d think she’d come off as some Latina cutie. But upon a closer look, she was more like an Aztec warrior ready to tear Dawn’s chest open. A more minute inspection also revealed the tiny signs of age that had ended her ingénue acting career.
Not that a thirty-one-year-old should be worried about being ancient. At least, not in the real world. But this was Hollywood, where logic feared to tread.
As Dawn faced Breisi, she could see her own image in the wall mirror. Not exactly an L.A. poster girl herself, with her extremely average face, complete with a lovely scar riding an eyebrow, courtesy of a stunt gag. But that was nothing compared to the scar on her cheek from the fight with Robby. She also had a sleekly muscled antiwaif body and a low-maintenance, low-riding ponytail that banded her brown hair together.
A special delivery full of attitude. She’d been maintaining the package for twenty-four years, ever since she could first say, “Screw off.” Ever since she realized that she would never live up to the gorgeous promises her mother, the famous Eva Claremont, had woven.
Mom. The name tasted bitter.
Breisi spoke, voice flat. “Those are some clever moves, but I thought you’d left the stunt work by the wayside. Flashy show-off routines aren’t going to keep you alive with vamps.”
Dawn negligently inspected the dull practice dart on the end of her whip chain. It’d be the real thing if she used it outside. “Sharp, silver, and tipped with holy water. And I can use it to attack a Guard or maybe even one of those Goth Groupies. Blessed articles have an effect on both vamps, and we know silver slowly poisons at least some of them. If I could ward off spit with the chain’s speed and slice the dart into a red-eye’s tail or an exposed place—”
“It is just like one of those Guard’s tails, ain’t it?” Kiko said, making his way over.
A pretty blond guy in his late twenties with a soul patch under his lower lip, he was a struggling actor of a certain stature, a “little person” who was proportioned just right—only smaller. Right now, he couldn’t audition because he was recovering from Robby’s beat down. With a still-healing back, he also couldn’t run, couldn’t lift heavy objects, and sure as hell couldn’t fight by Breisi and Dawn’s side if it came right down to it. But his brain was still running on all cylinders. His psychometric, telepathic, and precognitive senses would always be valuable, not that Kiko was happy about missing out on any expected calls to action. During this past month, during all the days of dried-up leads to her dad’s whereabouts and information about the Underground, Kiko had been in physical therapy, biting back the pain Dawn knew he wasn’t showing.