Discount Armageddon
Page 81
Of the nine servitors in sight, seven were focusing on me, and two of them seemed intent on harrying Candy, who clearly had no idea how to deal with this. Istas still wasn’t moving. The odds were so far from in our favor that it wasn’t even funny.
I’ve dealt with lousy odds before. Taking advantage of the closest servitor’s preoccupation with its bruised knee, I straightened up, yanked my iPod out of my backpack, and flung it overhand at Candy. Years of waiting tables had left her with the kind of reflexes many gymnasts would envy; she caught the flying MP3 player one-handed, shooting me a quizzical look.
“Sound system!” I shouted. “Track four!” The closest servitor seemed to be over his injury, because he lunged for me, taloned hands extended. I grabbed the pole again and dropped back into a bend, kicking forward at the same time. The side of my foot caught him in the chin with substantially more force than would have been possible in an unassisted kick. He dropped like a rock. That would teach him to go fucking with a trained ballroom dancer in a strip club.
“Then what?” shouted Candy, punctuating the question with a startled squeal. I stole a glance in her direction. She was running ahead of the servitors, eyes still huge and frightened.
Dragon princesses have no natural weapons, and only one real natural defense: they’re completely fireproof. I grabbed the closest chair and smashed it down on the fallen servitor’s head, just to be sure. Then I took off running for the bar. “Just get the music on!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Candy stumbling up onto the DJ platform, the two servitors following behind her with the lazy grace of an apex predator. She wasn’t fighting back; she was just running. There was no real reason for them to hurry. The seven servitors still “assigned” to me had clustered together again, and they looked pissed. Candy wasn’t fighting, but I was apparently fighting substantially more than they wanted me to.
Tough titty. I vaulted onto the bar, grabbing a bottle of the cheap-ass house vodka. “How’s that music coming, Candy?”
“I think I’ve got it!” The speakers crackled on, hissing static white noise. Half a second later, the opening drone of the Tamperer’s “Hammer to the Heart” blasted into the room.
“Catch!” I flung the vodka across to her as hard as I could, praying that the cap would stay on, and that I was still close enough to have any accuracy. Someone was listening, maybe for the only time that night, because the bottle spun end over end to smack into Candy’s hand like the game-winning ball at the end of the ninth inning. “Now set yourself on fire!”
Her eyes went enormously wide. “What?!”
“Set yourself on fire!” I grabbed two more bottles of vodka, flinging them heedlessly at the lead servitors. They batted the bottles aside, but that didn’t matter; taking the time to block had slowed them down, and that was all I really wanted. “They started human, remember?”
Candy’s eyes remained wide, but the look in them was comprehension, not confusion. Dragon princesses were fireproof. For all I knew, dragon servitors were, too … but humans weren’t, and these servitors started life as humans. They were likely to be afraid of fire on general principles, even if it couldn’t actually hurt them.
Unscrewing the bottle, Candy emptied its contents over her head while I continued pitching everything I could get my hands on at the closest servitors. Her two started moving faster, apparently realizing that something was up. Then she produced a lighter from her pocket and hit the flint, sending a line of blue flame racing up her hand to her arm to her hair, until she finally went up like a Christmas candle. The servitors fell back, hissing furiously. Even my seven whipped around to face her, snarling and hissing with disbelief. The music was blasting, the beat thrumming through the bar and into the soles of my feet.
Dave always did want me to dance in his club. Grabbing the gun from my waistband, I launched myself off the bar again, and ran for the servitors.
They weren’t expecting that. They also weren’t expecting me to swerve off at the last minute, shooting enthusiastically but without particular concern for my aim as I ran for the nearest stage. Four of them broke off and chased after me, while the other three hung back, hissing in confusion. They must have been the smart ones.
The thing about dance—and by the same token, the thing about combat—is that it’s all in the rhythm. If you can’t find the beat, you can’t possibly get the steps right. People who say they can’t dance really mean that they have no idea how to get themselves synchronized to the beat of the music, and that screws them up. In a fight, the rhythm is generally set by the participants, rather than by any outside soundtrack … that is, unless you have a convenient sound system, and a dragon princess on hand to play DJ for you.
The other thing about dance and combat is that once you find the beat, it’s borderline impossible to ignore it. I grabbed the pole and boosted myself onto the stage, testing out the four-four rhythm of the song as the servitors closed in. There were four of them approaching, but the shape of the stage restricted them to attacking two at a time. That was good. The fact that they were starting to move clumsily along with the music was better.
The first pair of servitors crowded up against the stage, one of them swinging a two-by-four at my calves. I grabbed the pole and spun myself out of reach, shooting it in the tail. It hissed and dropped the weapon, but didn’t fall back as its companion grabbed a chair and slung it in my direction. I barely ducked in time. That’s the trouble with bar fights: there’s so damn much potential weaponry around. Even someone who doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing can find plenty of things to throw. Time to shut this party down.
Both servitors were moving, however unconsciously, with the beat of the music. I stopped spinning and leaned out to give them my best tango smile, one hand still clasping the pole. “Hey, boys,” I said coquettishly. I wasn’t even sure they’d originally been male, but regardless of gender, my behavior needed to be odd enough to throw them off their game. “You want to dance?”
The servitors looked puzzled. Then, snarling, they charged.
I grabbed the pole, dropping back and aiming squarely at the lead servitor’s chest as I shouted, “Candy, track seven!” The flaming figure at the DJ stand gestured assent and began jabbing fingers at my iPod, which was hopefully fireproof. If it survived this experience, I’d be sure to send a nice note to Apple about the quality of their products.
I’ve dealt with lousy odds before. Taking advantage of the closest servitor’s preoccupation with its bruised knee, I straightened up, yanked my iPod out of my backpack, and flung it overhand at Candy. Years of waiting tables had left her with the kind of reflexes many gymnasts would envy; she caught the flying MP3 player one-handed, shooting me a quizzical look.
“Sound system!” I shouted. “Track four!” The closest servitor seemed to be over his injury, because he lunged for me, taloned hands extended. I grabbed the pole again and dropped back into a bend, kicking forward at the same time. The side of my foot caught him in the chin with substantially more force than would have been possible in an unassisted kick. He dropped like a rock. That would teach him to go fucking with a trained ballroom dancer in a strip club.
“Then what?” shouted Candy, punctuating the question with a startled squeal. I stole a glance in her direction. She was running ahead of the servitors, eyes still huge and frightened.
Dragon princesses have no natural weapons, and only one real natural defense: they’re completely fireproof. I grabbed the closest chair and smashed it down on the fallen servitor’s head, just to be sure. Then I took off running for the bar. “Just get the music on!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Candy stumbling up onto the DJ platform, the two servitors following behind her with the lazy grace of an apex predator. She wasn’t fighting back; she was just running. There was no real reason for them to hurry. The seven servitors still “assigned” to me had clustered together again, and they looked pissed. Candy wasn’t fighting, but I was apparently fighting substantially more than they wanted me to.
Tough titty. I vaulted onto the bar, grabbing a bottle of the cheap-ass house vodka. “How’s that music coming, Candy?”
“I think I’ve got it!” The speakers crackled on, hissing static white noise. Half a second later, the opening drone of the Tamperer’s “Hammer to the Heart” blasted into the room.
“Catch!” I flung the vodka across to her as hard as I could, praying that the cap would stay on, and that I was still close enough to have any accuracy. Someone was listening, maybe for the only time that night, because the bottle spun end over end to smack into Candy’s hand like the game-winning ball at the end of the ninth inning. “Now set yourself on fire!”
Her eyes went enormously wide. “What?!”
“Set yourself on fire!” I grabbed two more bottles of vodka, flinging them heedlessly at the lead servitors. They batted the bottles aside, but that didn’t matter; taking the time to block had slowed them down, and that was all I really wanted. “They started human, remember?”
Candy’s eyes remained wide, but the look in them was comprehension, not confusion. Dragon princesses were fireproof. For all I knew, dragon servitors were, too … but humans weren’t, and these servitors started life as humans. They were likely to be afraid of fire on general principles, even if it couldn’t actually hurt them.
Unscrewing the bottle, Candy emptied its contents over her head while I continued pitching everything I could get my hands on at the closest servitors. Her two started moving faster, apparently realizing that something was up. Then she produced a lighter from her pocket and hit the flint, sending a line of blue flame racing up her hand to her arm to her hair, until she finally went up like a Christmas candle. The servitors fell back, hissing furiously. Even my seven whipped around to face her, snarling and hissing with disbelief. The music was blasting, the beat thrumming through the bar and into the soles of my feet.
Dave always did want me to dance in his club. Grabbing the gun from my waistband, I launched myself off the bar again, and ran for the servitors.
They weren’t expecting that. They also weren’t expecting me to swerve off at the last minute, shooting enthusiastically but without particular concern for my aim as I ran for the nearest stage. Four of them broke off and chased after me, while the other three hung back, hissing in confusion. They must have been the smart ones.
The thing about dance—and by the same token, the thing about combat—is that it’s all in the rhythm. If you can’t find the beat, you can’t possibly get the steps right. People who say they can’t dance really mean that they have no idea how to get themselves synchronized to the beat of the music, and that screws them up. In a fight, the rhythm is generally set by the participants, rather than by any outside soundtrack … that is, unless you have a convenient sound system, and a dragon princess on hand to play DJ for you.
The other thing about dance and combat is that once you find the beat, it’s borderline impossible to ignore it. I grabbed the pole and boosted myself onto the stage, testing out the four-four rhythm of the song as the servitors closed in. There were four of them approaching, but the shape of the stage restricted them to attacking two at a time. That was good. The fact that they were starting to move clumsily along with the music was better.
The first pair of servitors crowded up against the stage, one of them swinging a two-by-four at my calves. I grabbed the pole and spun myself out of reach, shooting it in the tail. It hissed and dropped the weapon, but didn’t fall back as its companion grabbed a chair and slung it in my direction. I barely ducked in time. That’s the trouble with bar fights: there’s so damn much potential weaponry around. Even someone who doesn’t have a clue what they’re doing can find plenty of things to throw. Time to shut this party down.
Both servitors were moving, however unconsciously, with the beat of the music. I stopped spinning and leaned out to give them my best tango smile, one hand still clasping the pole. “Hey, boys,” I said coquettishly. I wasn’t even sure they’d originally been male, but regardless of gender, my behavior needed to be odd enough to throw them off their game. “You want to dance?”
The servitors looked puzzled. Then, snarling, they charged.
I grabbed the pole, dropping back and aiming squarely at the lead servitor’s chest as I shouted, “Candy, track seven!” The flaming figure at the DJ stand gestured assent and began jabbing fingers at my iPod, which was hopefully fireproof. If it survived this experience, I’d be sure to send a nice note to Apple about the quality of their products.
