Page 128 of The Succubi's Choice

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There’sa split second where the world is still, with his eyes burning gold in hatred, and there’s a lump in her throat that she can’t swallow past.

“What’d you, tell me, what’d you give her?” She asks, and her eyes sting, her ears ring, and her shoulder…

She risks taking her eyes off of him, and…

Her shoulder is coated in blood.

It drips from a gash, a graze, a line of fire across the top of her polo shirt, a rip where she can see her skin, her muscles, and too much blood, too much, and...

“Oh,” she says, faint, and despite herself, despite the urgency and the moment, she feels her hand start to loosen its grip on Vincente, as if her brain just now realizes that she’s injured and just now that there’s pain, that her hand isn’t cooperating, and…

The room tilts sideways, sharp, and she stumbles, tripping over the mother of pearl pistol, her feet sliding, and she fights to keep them underneath her.

There’s a triumphant flit to Vincente’s smile, as he stoops to gather the pistol, languidly, as she struggles to stand. “That’s more like it,” he says, with only a wrinkle in his brow as he watches her.

Katya’s in the doorway, frozen, and Miri briefly tries to lock eyes, but her eyes swim. Katya mouths something, as if stuck, as if the runes keep the sound out just as much as they keep her out.

Vincente follows her gaze, and he smirks at the sight of Katya. “Feel like cooperating yet?” He asks Miri, something mocking in his voice. “Feel like going up and undoing what you did downstairs?” He gestures with the gun, light, at Jacqueline, who stirs, ever so slightly.

In an instant, Katya’s gun is out of its holster, trained into the room. “Drop the weapon,” she snaps, like she’s been broken out of the spell. “Drop the weapon and step out of the room.”

She’s supposed to charm him, she’s supposed to — she lurches towards him, and the gun is once again trained on her and —

There’s a wisp of air, a brush of motion and feeling behind her, and her Archdemon appears, just out of the corner of her eye.

Both guns snap towards him, and Miri sags.

He crouches next to Jacqueline, resting a hand against her shoulder, as if the guns don’t mean a thing to him, before he straightens again, his eyes sweeping over Miri, over Vincente, over the spray of blood in the room and the steady drip down Miri’s arm, before finally, finally focusing on Vincente.

Who, to his credit, doesn’t waver, his nostrils flaring, as he trains the gun on Miri instead. “Reverse it,” Vincente snaps, as if this has been his plan all along. “Reverse it or I kill her and —"

There’s a snap, quieter than the other one, and blood blossoms on Vincente’s chest, and Katya holds the smoking gun.

He staggers, before falling with a thud, too loud in the room.

Katya exhales, before fitting the gun in the holster, her eyes sharp. “Well, that’ll go on my record,” she says, attempting to step through the doorway and being blocked by the runes again.

Miri blinks at her, and without a word Not-Thomas puts a hand on her back, stabilizing her, leaning her against him. Her shoulder burns, sharp, buzzing in her ears, and her hand is numb, numb and cold, and —

“Did you do, whatever it was you were doing?” Katya asks, oddly formal, and Miri opens her mouth to respond.

“Yes,” the Archdemon says. “You’ll be safe, we need to leave.”

“She needs medical help.” Again, the aborting movement across the doorway, “She needs stitches, probably some blood.”

“I don’t need stitches,” Miri says, her words dragging out of her slow, but she can hear her heart slamming behind her ears. “I’ll...”

There’s a nod, and Katya turns away, fast, her face business-like, before Not-Thomas gives her a squeeze of the hand and —

The last thing she sees is Vincente against the floor, still streaming blood, before her back hits a couch.

She hisses in pain, her shoulder on fire, and for a second her vision blacks out, and she’s floating, and —

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