Dream Hunter (Bailey Spade 2)

Itzel really owes me one. The germs here must be almost as bad as on Earth.

Napoleon’s directions lead us to what once was a storefront but is now boarded up and missing a sign.

“No way to see what’s waiting for us inside,” Ariel whispers as she tries to peek behind the plastic covering the windows.

Kit makes herself look like an orc. “I could pretend to be a newbie who wants to join the gang.”

“No,” Itzel whispers. “Let’s stick to Bailey’s sleep grenade plan.”

Nodding, I check the door.

It’s locked.

I take out my lockpicks, but Felix puts a hand on my shoulder before I can use them. He then shoots the door with an arc of magenta energy. “In case there’s an alarm,” he quietly explains.

Still in her orc form, Kit eyes the door dubiously. “I don’t think this place has functional indoor plumbing, let alone alarms.”

I shush them and get to work with the lockpicks. Everyone watches my hands in fascination. As soon as the lock gives in, I carefully open the door and toss in the grenade. Closing the door, I count the seconds in my head to make sure whoever’s inside has fallen asleep and the gas has neutralized, letting us walk in safely.

“Hey!” a voice growls behind us. “What the puck are you doing?”

Startled, we spin around as one.

Scowling at us is a veritable army of Filthy Bastards.

Chapter Thirteen

“They must’ve snuck up on us as Bailey was dealing with the lock,” Felix whispers, and everyone is too tense to chastise him for stating the blatantly obvious.

Ariel reacts first, her military training kicking in as she leaps forward and punches an orc twice her size in the chest. Her opponent flies back at his comrades, who stagger back before they catch him and shove him back at her.

Before I can see how Ariel fares, I spot a stone flying our way.

It smashes into Felix’s metallic chest. His Neo Golem face shield goes up, and the robotic suit rips into the crowd of our attackers, making disturbing flesh-meets-metal smacking sounds along the way.

If it weren’t for the breeze that would take the gas away too swiftly, I’d consider using my remaining sleeping grenade. As is, I yank out the gun, activate it, and aim it at the head of the nearest orc.

The gun beeps. Though nothing seems to come out of the barrel, the orc falls unconscious. The gun is still on the nonlethal setting—a good thing, as this orc may well be the one we seek.

“We just want to talk to Vas,” Itzel shouts. “There’s no need for anyone to get hurt!”

A Filthy Bastard with the perfect features of an uber spits at Itzel, and his saliva lands on her mask.

Puck. If that were me, I’d kill him for that unauthorized sharing of bodily fluids.

Itzel must feel the same. Eyes turning into slits, she forms a ball of lightning between her hands and hurls it at her assailant.

The guy flies back and crashes into his brethren, knocking them off their feet like bowling pins.

An orc takes his place.

Heart hammering, I render him unconscious with my gun and survey the rest of the battlefield.

Felix is battling a dwarf and an orc—and looks to be winning. Ariel is effortlessly beating up two elves. Still in her orc form, Kit is facing off with an elf who has an ugly scar on his face. A smash of Orc Kit’s fist later, the elf slumps to the ground, but another Filthy Bastard—a vampire—takes his place.

I aim the gun at the vampire and squeeze the trigger, but nothing happens. I switch to lethal mode and shoot him again—still nothing.

Puck. What gives?

Before I can freak out properly, Kit transforms into a giant and kicks the vampire with all her might. The guy flies to the end of the cul-de-sac and doesn’t get up. Exhaling in relief, I switch my gun back to stun mode and put down Felix’s dwarf, as well as one of Ariel’s elves.

Two vampires wielding wicked-looking knives attack Giant Kit, and a dwarf appears out of nowhere and yanks on my gun-holding wrist. The weapon clanks to the ground. Before I can grab for it, the dwarf throws a punch at my stomach.

I jump back, softening the impact of the blow. Still, my breath whooshes out of my lungs. Pucking puck. Dwarves are incredibly strong, and fierce fighters on top of that. Even with my martial arts training, I’m in big trouble without that gun.

Deciding to play dirty, I dodge the next punch, grab the dwarf by his bushy beard, and give it a vicious tug. My opponent’s pained cry is my reward—well, that and the gross souvenir that looks like something a lion might cough up after giving the whole pride a tongue bath.

Hurling the disgusting clump of hair back at its owner, I smash my fist into his solar plexus.