“I said stay down!” Lyia swings her foot up at the chest of the crawling, pantsless mercenary. She feels his ribs crack across her instep and hears the wind knocked out of his lungs as he collapses to the ground. “Fuckwit.”

She turns to the woman behind her. Dirty blond hair. Pouty lips. Large eyes set apart just a little bit too far. Jess. “You alright, Jess?”

“I had it under control.”

Lyia looks Jess over. The woman barely has any clothes on at all. Every weapon she has for defense—a knife, a stun baton, and even the pair of escrima sticks that’d been stashed under the bed—lie inert on the other side of the room, cast aside and completely out of reach. “Yeah. Sure you did.”

She steps over the downed merc, hardly taking notice of the fact that his robe is bunched up at his waist and his bare ass is shining up into the room. She picks up the stun baton and tosses it over to Jess. “Get on over to the safe room. Don’t drop it this time.”

Jess catches the baton, scowling. Wordless, she turns and stomps out the door.

Sighing, Lyia leans over and grabs the escrima sticks from the ground, one in each hand. Better than nothing. She looks over to the discarded knife, not too far away. Her face wrinkles in disgust as she kicks the handle. It clatters across the hardwood floor to a rest somewhere under the bed. She walks back toward the door, again stepping over the unconscious half-dressed mercenary.

Then she hears them. A new set of footsteps. Heavy. They’re coming down the hall to this room’s door.

“Broles, man! C’mon. Those damn steelplates will be on this side of town any minute. We gotta get—” The footsteps turn toward the open door and step through, revealing another merc. He’s a bit shorter, but with a thicker, stocky build. Apparently he’s the senior to the pantsless one, Broles. The short merc looks at Broles’s embarrassingly prone position and then at Lyia. “You bitch!”

He drops the gear in his hands and rushes her before she can get a word out or her sticks up. Head down, his shoulder rams against her stomach and drives her toward the rear wall. They don’t get far, though. Lyia’s heel catches on Broles’ hip, sending her and the short merc to the floor. He’s on her in a second, knees pinning her shoulders to the ground. Grabbing a knot of her hair, he raises his other arm, ready to land a meaty fist into her face. He doesn’t get the chance. Swinging at her elbow, she jabs the tip of one stick into his armpit.

That’s the nice thing about pressure points. Even a weak hit, aimed just right, can be debilitating. The merc’s arm drops to his side, completely out of his control.

Using both sticks, she swings at his back and bucks her hips. It’s just enough to rock him forward. He has to catch his weight with his remaining good arm, which creates just enough space to wriggle out from under him.

She gets to her feet while he’s still on his hands and knees. As she turns to face him, she sees him reach into his boot and pull a short ceramic dagger wrapped in paracord.

Shit.

Anyone who comes into the building is supposed to check in all of their gear, including weapons, removable cybernetics, chembraids, and even clothes. After bathing, patrons should only roam the interior with a complementary robe, always with an escort. Lyia suddenly realizes that this merc is fully dressed in his street gear. The stench trapped in his garments overwhelm any of the fresh scents that were applied in the bath. He must’ve geared up and then come back to retrieve his partner.

He turns to face her, knife hand forward. Emotion seems to have drained from his face. He’s all business now.

Lyia loosens her shoulders. “Look, we don’t have to do this. Take your buddy and get out before it’s too late.”

He sniffs out in a half laugh. “’S already too late. Whole town is ’bout to be run over. Madame already turned me away from the safe room. Said there’s no space. Bitch.”

He spits before continuing, “No way I get to a siege cave, even without dragging his naked ass with me.” He looks at her like he’s comparing choice cuts at a market. “May as well let them get me in the middle of a last hurrah.”

Mercenary logic. Lyia can’t help but roll her eyes. “Not happening.”

She points her nose down at his partner, still unconscious and ass-up to the world. “How about you have a go at him. Looks like he’s already primed for you.”

“C’mon, girlie. I already told ya there’s no space left in the safe room. You’d seriously rather become one of them than have one last big ‘O’?”

Revolting. Even on a good day, she’d charge him double just to look at her. No one forces her to do anything she doesn’t want. They haven’t for a long time. No way she’s letting it happen now. She tightens her grip on the escrima sticks. “No freebies. No exceptions.”

“Fine. We’ll do this the hard way.” He lets out his annoying little sniffing laugh. “Besides, it’s better for me when I know you don’t want it.”

He stomps toward her, rushing in, knife in hand. Heavy steps for such a little guy. One step. Two steps.

He’s one step away from her and closing fast. A quick side-hop with a spin, and she dodges his charge entirely. It’s almost too easy. Finishing her spin, she extends her arms, swinging both sticks at where she knows his head will be.

Whiff.

Shit. Short guy. Disappointment seeps onto Lyia’s face as she realizes she misjudged the mercenary’s height. His knife flashes at her. Too fast.

It slices both of her forearms, cutting deep. She screams in pain and drops the sticks, feeling the merc’s blade make contact with bone as he follows through with his slice. She just barely manages to grab his wrist to stop him from redirecting the dagger toward her gut. Blood runs down her arms and on to his, covering them in red. It’s hard to keep her grip.

She’s so focused on the knife that she doesn’t see his free hand come up to her throat. He grabs hold and starts to squeeze. She struggles to breathe while still trying to keep him from sinking his blade into her gut.

Then she hears it.

Footsteps, coming down the hall. They’re lighter than his were, and faster. The raid is in Lower Bule already? The door alarm isn’t ringing to signal a breach though. There’s no time to know for sure. It couldn’t be anyone else from the Red Light. Jess was the last one unaccounted for and there’s no way that self-centered blond wench would backtrack from the safe room.

Gasping, she looks into the short merc’s eyes. The emotionless look of business is gone, replaced with a sick, sadistic, yellow-toothed grin. His hand at her throat loosens for a moment, and then he immediately squeezes again. Lyia’s eyes widen with the realization that this sick bastard is enjoying this, trying to take his time.

Fuck it. She lets go of his wrist with one hand and pushes it out to his chest, palm out, hovering just above his dirty shirt. Closing her eyes, she concentrates. She feels her palm warm and visualizes thousands of tendrils of energy emanating outward from its surface and into his chest cavity. Instantly, she knows everything there is to know about his body. His bum knee. His three herniated discs (now replaced). His increased adrenaline.

Her energy tendrils wrap themselves around his heart.

Lyia opens her eyes and looks into his. He’s lost in his berserker frenzy, still grinning, still thinking he’s in control. He hasn’t even noticed that she’s stopped struggling. That his hand at her throat has no strength at all. That she’s not even using her other hand to keep his knife away from her.

She lifts her free hand and caresses the side of his face, smearing her blood into his poorly maintained facial hair. “Shh.”

He barely has time to react to the feeling of his heart being crushed.

A second later, the short merc collapses to the floor, lifeless.

Scowling, Lyia spits on the dead mercenary and picks up his dagger. Holding the tip of the blade to her own throat, she looks to the door. If it’s the Umbrati coming down the hall, they know she’s there and they know she’s a healing mage. No way she’s going to give them the chance to conscript her.

The footsteps come closer to the doorway and Lyia braces herself, mentally preparing for what needs to be done.

She hears the feet slide and she sees a dark-skinned girl in dreadlocks swing around the doorframe and into the room. “I heard a scream and—whoa.”