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leapt up in the air to meet him.
The two furies clashed in a spellbinding kaleidoscope of furious blade sparks.
Red, black, and orange rained down upon her, the heat prickling her skin. The
sensation jolted her, ripping her body from its paralysis. Falon rolled over
again, concentrating on her path toward the door.
    They
could kill each other for all she cared. She prayed for exactly that even as
she continued to roll. As the furious clash of steel continued, Falon made it
to the closed doors. She pushed with her hands and opened them just a crack. On
her elbows, she dragged herself forward, ignoring the harsh scrape of her skin
against concrete as she made it outside. It occurred to her that the sidewalk
was eerily quiet even as she collapsed on the dirty concrete. In slow, thick
flows, her strength drained from her body.
    No
food in more than a day, coupled with what was going on behind her and the
continued blood loss had taken its toll. If she didn’t find a trash can to
crawl into soon, she’d die on the street.
    At
least in a trash can she’d have some privacy. The shattering of glass and the
subsequent pelting of needle-sharp shards into her skin forced Falon to roll
into a fetal position with her hands over her head. She prayed once more that
the two demonic warriors would just go the hell away. Didn’t happen. One of
them—she didn’t dare uncurl her body to see which one—slammed to the ground
beside her with a hard thud. A harsh whoosh of air expelled from the body’s
lungs, and she heard the crunch of broken glass beneath the feet of the other.
“Please, please, just leave me alone,” she begged.
    A
large, powerful hand grabbed her, its thick uncompromising fingers wrapped
around her biceps. Falon gasped, opened her eyes, and froze. Deep
turquoise-colored eyes blazed down at her. Her skin chilled, then heated before
he yanked her up as if she didn’t weigh more than a small sack of potatoes.
    “Get
your damn hands off me!” she shrieked, kicking at Vulkasin.
    Instead
of obeying her, he shook his head as if she were naught but an annoying child
begging for a piece of candy. He had sheathed one sword but held the other high
in his right hand. With his left hand, he pulled her up to him and held her
firmly against his chest. He turned easily and pointed his sword at Conan, who
glared from where he lay broken and bloodied on the sidewalk. Malevolent heat
radiated off his body. Falon cringed into the hardness of the man holding her.
He laughed and pressed the tip of his sword into Conan’s jugular. “I’d planned
on killing you, Viktor. Do you think I’m here by accident? I’ve been tracking
you for days.” Vulkasin sighed as if bored. “Your death will be my pleasure.”
As he pushed the tip into Viktor’s skin, a small fountain of blood sprayed onto
the blade. “But I may spare you, for a few minutes.”
    Conan
sneered and spit at Vulkasin’s sword. Vulkasin jabbed the sword deeper into
Conan’s throat. More blood spurted. Falon cringed at the gory sight.
    “Tell
me where Balor has gone and why, and I will give you a ten-minute head start.”
    Conan’s
black eyes snapped in fury. “I do not know. I broke with my clan years ago, as
you know.”
    Vulkasin
tsked tsked and shook his head. His blade sliced deeper into Conan’s throat.
Blood squirted in short thick pumps from the artery. Falon was going to be
sick.
    “Back
East! The clans converge for the rising!” Conan screamed, pushing as far back
into the asphalt as he could.
    “The
rising you will never see,” Vulkasin sneered, but retracted his blade. “You
just bought yourself ten minutes.”
    With
her still clutched to his chest, Vulkasin whipped around and strode toward a
shiny, sleek motorcycle surrounded by more choppers. Behind the sleek cycles
stood dark, hooded figures, all the more menacing for their silence. “You will
not see the rising of the Blood Moon, Vulkasin!” Conan shouted.
    Falon
trembled with her desire to flee,