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fight.
    Although he wouldn’t have minded the help, it hadn’t completely escaped Quinn’s conscience that the driver was still in the car behind him, likely to come to at any moment, so he held the tattoo in check.
    Somehow, Quinn imagined, the image of him and a large animal fighting right alongside him might freak Tony out.
    Go figure.
    The Xiphos stayed firm in his grip as Quinn battered the Destroyer’s head with the open palm of his other hand. If he could only get him into position. Get the neck exposed…
    Another fireball exploded in front of him, slamming through Quinn’s solar plexus with the speed and impact of a Mac truck. Damn, but this fucker was primed. He had to be one of the older ones if he had this much energy to draw on.
    The Destroyer had thrown at least six fireballs by Quinn’s estimation and each one had more power than the last. As he struggled to make sense of the fact the strikes were increasing in strength instead of diminishing, the asshole charged again and Quinn barely managed to sidestep him.
    Pain rang through his body in great, echoing waves, like a vibrating gong, the fiery agony lighting up his nerve endings.
    Despite the pain, his years of training and quick footwork served him well. Quinn spun around and caught the Destroyer by the arm, using the man’s natural momentum to slam him into the frame of the car. A few stray sparks wafted off the metal frame of the car as the Destroyer shook off the head slam and staggered a few feet to his knees.
    Quinn leaped, arm outstretched to defuse the static. The last thing he needed was the spark getting close enough to hit the gas tank. It caused him precious seconds of the battle, but Quinn knew it was a necessary precaution if he wanted to get Tony out of this alive.
    Satisfied he’d eliminated any threat, Quinn refocused on his opponent. The Destroyer had regained his feet, but he staggered with drunken steps as he put some additional distance between himself and the car, presumably to get his second wind.
    Fat fucking chance.
    Quinn leaped, slashing the Xiphos in large, sweeping arcs, the gleaming blade reflecting moonlight as he went for his enemy’s throat. The Destroyer backpedaled and Quinn saw the first hint of fear in the soulless eyes that maintained a steady focus on the slashing sword.
    His bull’s tail flicked in anticipation as Quinn feinted, then double-timed his steps so he was on the Destroyer before the other man could react. With the pointed tip of his weapon, Quinn kept his foe unfocused, the tight jabs enough to slow his opponent. When he managed to nick the corner of the Destroyer’s rib cage—or where the ribs would be if the thing was actually human—it offered enough distraction to push the man a few more steps so the side of Montana’s building was at his back.
    Quinn slashed once again—harder and faster than the sharp stabs—slicing through the skin at the top of the chest. The Destroyer let out a wail of pain, the shot of electricity he was about to fire flaring off in a wild arc that petered out as it fell to the sidewalk. Quinn gave a satisfied grunt and used the momentary diversion to his advantage. With his foot, he caught the Destroyer behind the knee, dropping him to the ground.
    With a pin worthy of an Olympic wrestler, Quinn subdued the Destroyer in a tight hold. The guy struggled and writhed against the concrete but couldn’t break the pin.
    “Who do you work for?”
    “Fuck you.”
    “Classic answer, asshole. Why don’t I make the question easier for your pea-brained intellect?” Quinn grit out between teeth clenched from the effort of holding the guy down. “Why did Enyo send you?”
    “Maybe you didn’t hear me? I said fuck. You. Although—” The Destroyer broke off, a subtle purr in his voice, even in the midst of his resistance. “She’s a luscious piece. Hot enough to make me want to veer off my plans and enjoy some time with her.”
    Quinn ignored the fetid breath, ignored the