We’re being attacked by hooligans, thought Odette. And apparently they’re fucking our shit up. She could feel her muscles tensing into tight springs, and her spurs slid out.
The sword blade was removed, and then two sets of hands forced themselves through the rip. She gave a moment’s thought to slashing at them with her spurs, but before she could put thought into action, they had begun to haul back on the roof. A corner of it peeled away with a horrendous metal shrieking, and five male faces peered in. Two of them were black youths, and the other three were white. However, it was not their race that caught her attention.
They had all been mutilated, twisted. There were lines running all over their faces, cicatrices that were swollen and red. One of them had square scars around his eyes. Another had a line running down the center of his face. A third had two lines that began at a point under his chin, angled away from each other, and went up over his shaved head.
All five of them had elected to wear sleeveless T-shirts for the evening’s festivities, and she could see similar marks on their arms. One man had continuous spirals curling up the length of his arms, slicing through some tattoos of dubious artistic merit. One of the black men had oblongs of pallid Caucasian skin implanted into his forearms. Another man had lines circling his oversize biceps, outlining the bulging muscles. The sword blade that had cut through the ceiling was projecting out of a slit in his arm.
Odette judged that they would not have looked reputable even before their modifications. Now, they gave the impression of being patchwork thugs. One of the white guys, the one with the sword, squinted at her.
“’Ere, we’ve got one that’s awake!” he announced, and then he smiled at her broadly. With a shock, she saw that his mouth was full of chromed serrations. “So, darling,” he said to Odette, “are you my fanny?”
“I beg your pardon?” she said, completely at a loss.
“Not ‘my fanny,’ you tosser,” said one of the black guys. “Myfanwy.”
“Oh, whatever,” said the first guy. “Like that’s even a name.”
“That’s not Myfanwy Thomas,” said a voice from the shadows by the side of the road. In contrast to the hooligans, this voice spoke with a polished upper-class English accent. “It’s Odette Leliefeld. Hello, Odette, good to see you again.” Odette frowned. He stepped forward, tall, blond, and handsome. She was fairly certain she had never seen him before in her life, and yet he somehow seemed familiar.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Plenty of time for explanations later,” said the man, smiling. “You’ll be coming with us. For now, though, we have some errands to take care of. Lads, that’s Myfanwy Thomas.” He pointed at the slumped Rook. “Kill the fucking bitch right now.”
The youth with the sword blade coming out of his arm drew back, preparing to strike. Odette lunged forward and slashed out with her left spur, slicing across his already scarred cheek.
The men all flinched back at her movement, and then they flinched back even farther when Sword Arm clutched at his face and began a hideous screaming. She’d given him a dose of the platypus venom, and it appeared to be having the effect for which the platypus had evolved it. The other young men around the car seemed suddenly unsure of themselves, but not the tall blond one.
“Anybody else want some?” asked Odette coldly. Sword Arm was now rolling in the dirt, squealing in pain. “You realize he got off lightly, right?”
“Bitch, you are gonna regret fucking up my mate,” said one of the other men, the one with the scars twisting up his arms, whom Odette had mentally christened Spiral Guy. “And since you’re not that Miff chick, well, you’re not even gonna believe what we’ll do to you.” He bent his hand back slightly, and a blade made of bone slid out of his palm. It was a good twenty centimeters long, and glittered wetly.
“She lives, that’s part of the deal,” said the blond man sharply.
The deal?
“Step back, lads, I got this,” said another one of the men. His mouth had scars radiating out from it, and as he opened his mouth, his lips split along the lines, peeling open like the petals of the most disturbing flower in history. A fine crimson mist spewed out of his throat, enveloping Odette.
“You’ve got nothing,” she said coldly. This time she was prepared. Her skin itched, but lenses slid down over her eyes and protected them. She pressed her lips tightly together, and muscles within her sinuses clamped shut. Then, while Mist-Breathing Guy (she was too focused on the task at hand to come up with a better moniker) stood back smugly and his face knit itself back together, she swiped forward with her spur and scored him across the neck.
He stared at her in bewilderment and then crumpled, whimpering. Apparently, he had a different reaction to platypus venom than his mate, although it was still an acceptable result. Odette breathed out. She had never actually used her spurs on a person before. She would have expected to feel something about injecting a man with an excruciatingly painful toxin. She didn’t. Perhaps because she didn’t have any room to question her actions here. It was simply something that had to be done.
The remaining three thugs didn’t feel the need to question her actions either. Instead, they moved forward. Spiral Guy swiped out at her with the blade jutting out of his palm, and she flinched back hastily. Another man held up his hands, and she saw that he’d had extra thumbs added. With a wet crack, his arms split in two at the elbows. He reached behind his back and drew four knives. The black man with the white skin on his arms simply stalked toward her, his oversize muscles twitching slightly. The backs of his fingers were covered in shining, spiky carapaces, like knuckle-dusters made of insect shells.
I don’t think I’m going to be able to buy us many more minutes, she thought. Those first two were complete strokes of luck.
Time to bluff.
“Do you think you can just take me down? You want to ask your two friends in the dirt there how easy it is?” she said. “And I’m out of the gentle venom. At least one of you is going to die.”
“There’s three of us left,” said the muscled man, sounding not at all concerned, “plus our friend here.” He nodded at the well-spoken blond man. “And you’re stuck in the car. And we’re gonna watch for your little bitch stingers.”
“That’s a fair point,” conceded Odette. “But you’ve got to come in the car if you want us, and my little bitch stingers can kill you.”
“I’m just going to cut them off,” said Spiral Guy brightly. “Or rip them off.”
I could probably scramble out of the car and run, Odette thought. Maybe I could lead them away? Except I’m sure at least one of them would stay and kill Rook Thomas. She looked down at the unconscious Checquy people. They weren’t her people, but she couldn’t leave them.
“This is what I get for working with amateurs,” said the blond man. “You three, stop your bloody posturing and immobilize her. I’ll take care of Myfanwy Thomas.” He stepped forward when a new voice rang out from the trees at the top of the bank.
“Don’t move,” it said. Odette frowned — she knew it from somewhere. Everyone else froze, and a look of absolute horror erupted on the blond man’s face.
“No!” the blond man shouted, absolutely aghast. “Not you! What are you doing here?”
“You, my friend, smell familiar,” said the voice. “Where do I know you from?” The owner of the voice stepped forward. It was Bishop Alrich, dressed in a gray suit. He wore no tie, and his free-flowing hair was now a light auburn, almost blond.
“It’s just some faggot in a suit,” snarled the thug with the knuckle-dusters.