Page 4 of Tracking Snow

No wonder these HAM assholes targeted him.

He looks like a fae or a mage with those eyes. His hands are still tucked in the front pocket. I wonder what his magic is. I want it. Whatever it is, I already want it.

"Yeah, you should go, little twig," Wrecking Ball says, breaking the moment.

Facing off with the three, I flash them a grin, more feral than friendly. "No. I don't think I'll be doing that. You want to get to him," a dagger spins in my hand, "you'll have to go through me." Another spike of adrenaline zips through my bloodstream as I square my stance.

The trio exchanges a glance. Their unspoken conclusion lands when they start to close in.

The woman snaps a switchblade from her boot, metal flashing under the alley light. Heat rushes into my chest and settles deep in my muscles.

This is what I came for.

I step in, redirect her arm, and drag my dagger across her dumbass jacket. A shallow cut, meant more to ruin the jacket than slash flesh.

I'm not here to kill anyone. I only plan to put them down hard enough that they think twice about terrorizing mages or fae again.

Wrecking Ball charges, his weight shaking the pavement. I pivot and slice the back of his knee. The sound of his shout tearing through the alley charges me up, my pulse driving fast and hot.

Dirt-Face pulls a metal club from his belt. Good. Something I can use. I lunge to disarm him, already planning the next move, but my boot lands on a loose chunk of concrete. My ankle jolts. My balance falters for a single beat.

The woman slams the hilt of her blade into my bicep. A burst of pain shoots through my arm to my fingers. My dagger drops, scraping the ground. Wrecking Ball recovers faster than he should and rams his shoulder into my ribs. Air punches out of my lungs. My back hits the pavement. Gravel digs into my palms.

Dirt-Face steps in, metal club raised.

I grab the club mid-swing and wrench it from his hand. My grip slips. My arm buckles from the earlier hit. The club hits the ground at the same time my ass does.

I'm on my feet in a blink, between the HAM goons and Hoodie again.

"Don't worry, I got this," I say, turning to throw him a reassuring smile, though my arm hurts like a sonofabitch and my ankle throbs.

Instead of worry or concern, his expression seems almost curious.

The translucent white of his eyes flickers to blue, then green, then purple in rapid succession before resuming its translucent white.

What in the faefucks?

Could a person get a concussion from landing on their ass too hard?

"I'll protect you," I say to him with more confidence, masking the potential brain damage I may or may not have now.

He tilts his head slightly, and I catch what might be a gleam of interest.

"You bitch," the woman hisses, drawing my attention back to the assholes who are bleeding far less than I would like. At least they’re breathing hard with exertion.

"Can't say we've ever had to clean the streets of a human supporting some dirty mage," Dirt-Face says, pulling a gun from the back of his pants and training it on me. "But looks like today is the day."

I step back, fear zipping up my spine to pop out at my temple in a singular icy sweat droplet.

Aw fuck. Usually the HAMs don't pack firepower like this.

"Err, maybe I was a bit hasty. How about we talk this out over some drinks? I can make a mean appletini?" My offer sounds weak to my own ears, but I'd yet to find a situation an appletini didn't help.

A blur flashes in front of my eyes, and the gun clatters to the pavement.

Dirt-Face and I blink at each other.

Another dark flash and Wrecking Ball is suddenly on his back with a hard grunt of pain.