She brought her hand to her midsection, expecting to feel her lifeblood pouring from her body. But there was nothing. The Vandan, waiting expectantly for her to fall dead, could only gawk as Maeve removed her hand. No blood, no wound. The microfiber jacket, made for close-quarter combat, had stopped the blow.
Shock flooded Maeve's brain, but she had no time to appreciate her good fortune. The Vandan was already rearing back his sword for another strike. She tensed, anticipating his swing.
Maeve heard the unmistakable sound of an arrow ripping the air and striking flesh, and then another, and another. The Vandan froze in mid-backswing, his mouth hanging open as his grip failed. The sword skittered across the ground. He shot a malicious glare in Maeve's direction before sinking to his knee
