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penny. Hesz had nearly reached her when suddenly he went flying across the hall in the other direction, and smashed through the wall at the end of the landing.
    Hesz shook his head. He slowly got up and brushed the debris from his suit. He looked to the girl across the hallway with some understanding of what she had done. A murderous smiled spilled across his face. “Your bag of tricks is small, acolyte. Could they not find a grown-up for this mission? Or are all your sorcerers dead?”
    “They may well be, giant,” she answered, solemnly. “But you are one mage short at the moment, and all the dead sorcerers in Aandor are of no advantage to you right now.”
    Cautiously, Hesz stepped through the hole. He ripped off a large chunk of the banister to use as a club, and moved toward the girl. The woman stepped back into a defensive stance, her arms and hands raised, elegantly poised in a precise manner.
    The giant hesitated a moment … then continued toward the girl, raising his club, intent on creating carnage. As he did so, Hesz exposed his underside to Cal, who was still groggy on the floor braced against the door frame and trying to pull himself up. Then it occurred to the policeman, the thing that was just beyond the border of his thoughts a moment before; something about a nerve cluster. Cal braced himself against the door frame, gathered his remaining strength, and kicked upward, hitting Hesz’s external oblique muscle. Hesz let out an inhuman howl. He dropped his club and fell to his knees, clutching his side shaking. Pleased, Cal slumped back to the floor.
    The woman approached Symian, who still lay on the floor holding his face and whimpering. Blue streams like ink from a busted pen flowed from his tear ducts. She pulled a small piece of the flare out from the larger ball, which crackled in her palm, and dropped it on the gray man. The residue on his skin caught fire, burning blue like a gas jet. Symian screamed again and tumbled down the stairs.
    “YOUR RACE WILL DIE, WITCH!”
    “Hey,” Cal managed, attracting his female rescuer. He pointed to Hesz. The giant had gathered the bronze swordsman and went through the hole he had made. They could hear his clanging as he flew down a rear fire escape.
    “We had the element of surprise,” she said to Cal. “I was able to incapacitate their magic user before they realized they were under attack. Only a fool stays to battle a sorcerer without protection. It’s best not to push our luck.” The young woman crouched over him. Her face was broad and her eyes were deep as fjords, repositories for all the deep mysteries of the world.
    The man with the bat rejoined them. He had a great welt on the side of his face. He reminded Cal of a young John Lennon.
    “Fucking shit! This isn’t worth having a place to crash!” he yelled. “I’m better off at a shelter! You never said we would be fighting eight-foot linebackers with fucking swords!”
    “Are you with Anti-Crime?” Cal asked. He could hear sirens approaching. He felt hot and groggy.
    “The troll bit him,” she said. “We have to treat the wound before it festers.”
    “Take him to the hospital! I’m done with this crap!” John Lennon insisted.
    “What’s going on? Where’s Erin?” Cal insisted.
    “Your partner? She’s on the second floor!” John Lennon said. “Both pieces!”
    “The hospices won’t know how to treat him. We’ll take him to my place,” the woman said.
    “No,” Cal said. His strength was draining every second. He struggled to talk. “Cat! Bree! They know where…”
    John Lennon found Cal’s wallet and revolver on the floor and handed them to the woman. “They know where he lives. We need to tell his cop friends and let them handle it.”
    She studied the wallet. “He has a woman and child,” she said, pondering. “This will cause problems for his family.”
    “Please,” Cal said, barely conscious.
    “Will they really go after his family?” the Beatle