Yeah, I have a [b]unch of balls in the air this month.
Somebodies, actually. Three more guys, dressed in more hooded cloaks. Mahota spat a word I didn’t recognize, picked up a frying pan, and threw it in one, quick motion. It twirled through the air — and curved away before it could hit the lead guy in the head. This time I knew the swearword Mahota used, because I was saying it myself. These people were mages. Mages. My night out was now officially ruined.
Lead mage was one of the ones who likes to talk. “Run while you can, mosquito,” he sneered at us (thankfully, his Elvish was pure local Cuban, without a hint of the Universal Dominion’s rasp). “You, we don’t need alive.”
Well, when somebody puts it that way, a thoughtful woman takes the hint. I mean, there’s something seriously unnerving about a mage telling you he doesn’t care if you live or die, right? It’s not just me, correct? Mahota wasn’t a thoughtful woman; she had already pulled out twin batons and was stepping in front of me as I scrabbled backward. “You’re not worth looting,” she hissed back at him, and spun to attack.