“Weapons,” Doyle snapped out.
Training paid off. In less than two minutes they stood together, fully armed, in the grove.
“Make them come to us,” Riley ordered. “Make them maneuver. You up for this, Dead-Eye?”
“Count on it,” Sawyer replied, a gun in each hand.
They winged down from the sky, not the mutant batlike creatures from Corfu, but hundreds upon hundreds of the strange, vicious birds they’d dealt with on the boat.
Smaller, faster, more agile but no less lethal, they poured into the grove.
Sasha’s bolt went through three at once, which burst into ash.
Sawyer fired, two-handed, while blades cleaved. Their wings, he discovered as
one sliced through leaves, barely missed his throat, were as deadly as talon and beak.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Annika flip back, delivering two fierce kicks as her bracelets shot two more. And the wing that sliced through the sole of her shoe.
“Watch the wings!” he shouted. “They’re like razors.”
Dropping into a crouch, he fired right, left, then checked his timing. If he waited for a group he could, as Sasha did, take out multiples with one shot. One caught him as it fell, the keen wing grazing his shoulder before it went to ash. To avoid the next, he dropped, rolled, and took out a dozen more before he had to reload.
To his right, Bran blasted out streams to cover him. He caught sight of Riley falling flat on her back to avoid a low swoop, and Doyle’s sword cutting through so she rolled away from falling ash, firing as she did.
He smelled the ash, the stink of it, and blood. The others’, his own, as a trio he aimed for split apart. He took out the high two, but the one who went low caught him with talons at the ankle.
Mindful of his hands, he used the butt of his gun to smash at it, then put a bullet through it as it lay fluttering on the ground.
Then Annika lifted her arms, spun, spun, spun, bracelets flashing until ash fell like rain.
For a moment, the grove echoed with power, and with silence.
In a defiant gesture, Riley kicked at a pile of ash, then swiped at the blood trickling down her temple.
“Now I want a snack.”
Turning, Annika hugged her. “I’ll make you one.”
When he noticed her limping, Sawyer grabbed Annika around the waist. “Did they get your feet?”
“A little. But they ruined my new shoes.”
As Sawyer felt the heat of battle fade into a laugh, Doyle sheathed his sword. “Put a slice in my coat. Bet you can fix that,” he said to Bran.
“Seriously? You want him to use magick to fix your coat?”
Doyle only shrugged at Riley. “It’s a good coat.”
“Why don’t we go inside?” Bran lifted one of Sasha’s hands, bleeding, to his lips. “Assess all the damage. I think we look at flesh first, then see what we can do about coats and shoes.”
“That was a hell of a move there.” Sawyer kept his arm around Annika as they walked. “The last one—spinning?”
“I was very mad about the shoes. I had a lot of angry energy.”
“Looks good on you. You’ve got some nicks. Those little bastards are fast.”
“We kicked their ass. Don’t say it,” Riley warned Doyle. “I’m not an idiot. She just wanted to keep us busy, to see if we’ve got something new going—like her little lovebirds. Suicide squad, that’s what they were.”