twelve #2
I turn my focus back to Mercy, searching for her in the mêlée.
I find her in the last place I expect. Instead of cowering and whimpering in a corner like a helpless little lamb, she’s skillfully trading blows with Archer, who scraped himself up off the floor and came at us again.
Not only does she appear to know what she’s doing, but she’s getting the better of him, landing blows at a breakneck pace, her fists a blur, her body a machine.
She deftly steps aside to avoid the few punches he throws between fending her off and defending himself.
When he finally lands a jab, I charge forward, but she answers with a roundhouse kick that brings him to his knees before I reach them.
I stumble over a pile of writhing bodies and realize one of my friends is under there, so I tear off two hockey players and catch a glimpse of Angel under them, still hammering blows down on anyone he can reach, even when he’s buried in a pileup.
I manage to get another guy off, and then he’s up, slamming his head into my nose.
I roar with pain, since my nose was already busted.
My head swims, and black spots dot my vision, but I use all the pain to fuel my next blow, and the guy goes down like a ton of bricks.
Salem launches herself at my back, hissing and spitting and clawing like a wildcat.
I throw myself backwards into the wall with all my force, and she thuds against it so hard the house shakes.
When I spin away, she howls like a dying animal, but I manage to dislodge her when I do it again, this time spinning at the same time, using the momentum to slam her into the wall while I keep going.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Heath yells, grabbing my shoulder and wrenching me backwards. “More Disciples are on the way!”
“Mercy,” I bellow, and she glances at me for one split second before landing a knockout blow to Knox, sending his glasses flying down the hall.
She daintily steps over Archer’s body, and I notice she’s wearing normal shoes for once in her life—patent leather Mary Janes instead of her ugly brown clogs—and a dress that hugs her curves in a way that can’t be legal.
“I’m ready,” she says.
We duck our way through the fight that’s still going, dragging Angel with us.
“Where’s Manson?” Mercy asks, balking at the top of the stairs. “We can’t leave him!”
“A little help here,” he calls from where he’s backed into the corner next to the railing, banging his shoes against a guy’s shoulders and head, while the guy pounds on a Hellhound. Nice to see that our brothers showed up to help out at the last minute.
Angel grabs the hockey player with both hands and hurls him across the hall, and Mercy ducks in to grab Manson’s hand, dragging him to the stairs with us.
“Holy shit, that was scary,” Manson says. “I’ve never been in a fight before. I thought I was going to die! God, that was awesome!”
“What is that smell?” Mercy asks, her nose wrinkling as we hurry down the stairs.
“Don’t ask,” Manson says, pausing to peel the drenched dress from his body.
He looks down at his tighty-whitey underwear like he’s considering losing those too, but he decides against it and struts through the party like he knows he’s the hottest thing there, even with his hair plastered down and blood trickling from his nose.
Plenty of people must agree, because a chorus of cheers and whistles follows him through the crowd.
He preens and poses and blows kisses in response.
I have to give the guy credit—he’s got balls to walk through a party of fully-clothed people in his underwear with that kind of confidence.
We’re almost to the front door when it bursts open, and a half dozen rough-looking men crowd in.
In an instant, I see the guns in a couple of their hands, and I dive at Mercy, dragging her down.
From the corner of my eye, I see the flash of Heath’s hand dip into his boot, his switchblade already flipping open as he whips it out.
“This is for the Crossbones,” one of them bellows.
Three shots ring out, deafening even amid the noise of the partygoers and the music from outside. Screams and shrieks ring out, and chaos ensues. People trip over us, step on us. I grab Mercy and drag her under me, protecting her body with mine.
“We have to get out of here,” Angel says, dragging me up. “We’re on their turf. They won’t leave until we’re gone or dead.”
“Where’s Heath?” I ask, searching for him among the stampeding chaos.
I don’t see him, but it’s just like him to get caught up in the havoc, to do something crazy like join in.
But then someone knocks into my legs, and I look down and see him sitting on the floor, hunched over, being trampled and kicked around by the people trying to flee.
I reach down and grab him under the arm, dragging him up. That’s when I see his face has gone white as a sheet, and his hand that was clutching his chest comes away slick with blood. He looks at me, his bright eyes shiny with bewilderment and disbelief.
“Those fuckers shot me,” he says. “Saint—”
He never finishes his sentence. His words cut off abruptly, and he collapses into my arms.