The dead were too numerous to count. They wore khakis, polka-dot dresses, button-down shirts with ties askew. No wonder the street had been empty. A boy no more than fourteen, skin marbled like French cheese, lunged for me. I rebuffed him with a flick, then severed his spinal cord, so he could not rise again. Magic swelled with my anger at so many ordinary lives disrupted, now ended.
Nate continued the carnage, long out of magic. None of the scenarios
I’d invented in my head came close to his blood-drenched glee.
He turned, dripping. “And now, brother, your turn.”