Tsundere of Mysteries

September 10, 2008

Pastoral’s voice filtered through, strong but indistinct. “Synchronicity.”

I winced. “I don’t really want to go into it, but you deserve some explanation. I’ll know when I need to act.”

“How will you know?”

“I get certain cues. I’m sure you are not unfamiliar with the concept.”


I tapped my ear. “Yes. Be right back.”

I saw her shadow enter before I saw her. A reflective black coat, open to the summer night, framed a Victorian dress, creating a look not at all spoiled by the sleek weapon she slipped out with a gloved left hand. The DJ abruptly switched tracks and I knew that it was on.

To their credit, the guards immediately to her left and right knew something was amiss as soon as the tip of the jet-black handle started coming out of her coat. But even as they made contact and closed their hands around her arms, I knew they had made a mistake. Supernatural speed does not mean very much if you don’t think fast enough to go along with it. A split-second later, the crack of four wrists echoed off the brick wall behind me, and a split-second after that, the stutter of the submachine gun split the air.

In a sense it was a poor choice of weapon, I thought as I reached for the flask in my left pocket and flung it behind me. The liquid silver splashed out, pooling under the exit, and I automatically moved on to the next door. More than a few glasses had dropped and shattered, adding to the general confusion, so while one more might be noticed, I felt it was a reasonable risk.

The uzi continued unabated. Slugs flew, racking up property damage, gauging shallow furrows through flesh, and spraying blood through the air, but this was frankly no more than a cosmetic annoyance for the clientele. More than one of the lords paused, making irritated noises, and gestured for members of their retinue to clear out the nuisance. Guns are notoriously ineffective against the undead.

This, of course, was just what she wanted them to think. As she continued her noisy but largely ineffectual fusillade, I silvered two more exits – the other fire escape and the window. One of the elite guards, who’d been a mercenary in life, charged head-on into the cone of fire, bringing a knife down and slicing neatly through the Uzi. Calmly, as if she had not just been deprived of her only weapon, she brought her right hand around – ungloved and index finger first – and put it cleanly through his head. The fingernail came out the back of the skull, dislodging bone fragments and grey matter.

Then she opened her hand.

It got pretty messy after that.


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