Dread slammed into Bones like an iceberg. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.”
But his denials could not dissipate the pink mist which hovered in the air above the still tumbling form of Aycayia, nor could he, by wishing it, rewind time and alter the trajectory of the bullet that had struck her in the thigh, tearing away a fist-sized chunk of flesh.
Somewhere behind him, Tom was shouting. “Hold your fire, damn it. Hold your fire!”
Bones barely heard. Heedless of the threat from the sniper, he dashed toward the fallen Aycayia. She lay in six-inches of water, already turning bright red as her lifeblood poured from the ravaged flesh of her right thigh. He half-slid, half-dropped beside her, scooped her up in his arms, and started running for the relative shelter of the temple.
“Herald!” she
