“Stay,” she ordered.
“Okay,” he squeaked.
The bouncer strode toward them. “Hey, cool it!”
“Piss off,” Weedy Stubble shouted.
The bouncer reached for him, and Weedy Stubble swung a hard right hook into the man’s jaw. The new arrival stumbled back, tripped over a fallen bar stool, and fell, and Wannabe Surfer dealt him a vicious kick to the ribs that made the bouncer grunt with pain.
“Cut that out!” Val thundered. She grabbed Wannabe Surfer by the arm and yanked him away from the bouncer.
He screamed in anger and punched her in the face. Weedy Stubble grabbed a glass from the bar and smashed it over her head, and glass rained down on her shoulders, tinkling softly.
Val turned to him, baring her teeth. The amulet pulsed on her chest. Scarlet fog threatened the corners of her vision, but she forced it back. She shoved Wannabe Surfer into his companion, and they both sprawled on the floor.
“Hey!” Three more guys approached from the dance floor, half-empty glasses in their hands, sweaty from drinking and dancing.
“Help!” Wannabe Surfer squealed. “Help us!”
The three guys looked from him to Val and back.
Weedy Stubble struggled to his feet. “Bitch!” he hissed, then charged her and swung a haymaker at her face. She caught it with one hand and shoved him back with the other.
“She’s on crack or something!” Wannabe Surfer rose. “Stop her!”
“Ugh.” Val tapped the empty shot glass on the bar. “Another, barkeep?”
The bartender was on his phone. He stared at her, wide-eyed.
Wannabe Surfer grabbed the front of Val’s shirt. She ignored his hands and planted her knee in his guts. He doubled over, wheezing. The other four guys lunged simultaneously. Val blocked one punch. Another bounced harmlessly off her shoulder.
“911, what is your emergency?” a dispatcher asked tinnily on the bartender’s phone.
“There’s a fight,” the bartender cried.
One guy threw his arms around Val’s waist as though to hoist her off her feet. She rammed her elbow into his back with a satisfying crunch that sent him sprawling. Another guy grabbed her wrist with both hands. His companion did the same on the other side.
Val stomped hard, and her hobnailed boot drove into the instep on her left. The man roared and released her arm, and she whirled to slam her elbow into the other man’s jaw. He staggered back as Weedy Stubble launched a roundhouse kick. Val blocked his foot inches from her belly and knocked him off-balance. He staggered, and she followed up with a swift uppercut that snapped his head back and sent him sprawling.
Two men were left standing. They circled her, fists high, and Val felt a delicious wave of satisfaction at the expression in their eyes. They no longer saw her as easy pickings. Wariness and respect filled their faces. They watched her like a dangerous animal.
Val raised her hands to her face and beckoned with one. “Come on,” she purred. “Come and get it.”
The men exchanged glances, then moved in. One dealt a glancing blow to her ribs, but her eyes were on the other. He swung a quick jab at her throat, then ducked under her deflecting arm and struck at her cheekbone. Val slipped aside so the punch barely grazed her cheek. She slapped him in the throat, and he staggered, spluttering and clutched his neck. His companion screamed and kicked her in the shins. She felt a pang of pain and slapped the top of his head with a flat hand. His eyes widened at the impact, and his legs buckled under him. He unceremoniously landed on his ass.
Val turned to the bar, wiping her hands on her pants. “Any sign of that drink, barkeep?”
The bartender lowered his phone. Distantly, sirens sang in the night.
“Um,” he whimpered. “The cops are coming.”
Wannabe Surfer had recovered enough to stand up straight, but one arm still encircled his midriff. He clenched his free hand into a fist.
“Really, bro?” Val sighed. “Haven’t you had enough?”
Wannabe Surfer charged her, swinging wildly. Val was vaguely aware of flashlights shining into the club and someone yelling, but she focused on Wannabe Surfer’s fist as he came at her with a series of violent hooks. She dodged, dodged again or crouched, and let him come. When Wannabe Surfer lunged, Val gripped his flying arm and tossed him effortlessly over her back. He landed on his face and skidded.
“Police! Show me your hands!”
Val turned toward the brilliant flashlight and blinked. Six men sprawled on the floor surrounding her, groaning. The music boomed on, dancers oblivious to the fight, but the cops’ flashlights drowned out the disco.
Slowly, Val raised her hands.
“If it makes any difference,” she announced, “they started it.”
The back of the cruiser smelled like puke.
Val tried breathing through her mouth and focused on keeping her arms still and the amulet cool. A pitiful stainless steel chain secured her handcuffs. She was sure she could snap it with a flex of her shoulders, but she didn’t want to freak the cops out.
She leaned to the side and peered through the diamond mesh separating the backseat from the front. Her six victims, several also in handcuffs, stood in a subdued circle around the other cruiser, which painted the street with blue and red flashes. Bemused medics dabbed their wounds and appeared unimpressed by the quality of boo-boos on offer.
Down the block, headlights flashed.
“Sorry, Gennie,” Val muttered.
A snatch of conversation reached her through the cruiser’s front window, which was open a crack. “You said she was alone?”
