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I swayed, my legs buckling. The world spun around me. My stomach twisted. I felt drunk, stumbling to the right and left as the ground tilted one way and then the other.“Give me back my sight, faerie-whore!” snarled the enemy again. I heard his blade swing then the loud thud of it striking ground.It came from my right.The warrior bellowed again. Closer.“Duck, Master!” Zanyia shouted.I listened to my lamia. Something massive screamed over my head. The greatsword. My hair rippled in the wake of the warrior’s massive blade.He missed me by inches.My skin crawled even as I thrust in the direction I heard the warrior cursing. My arm extended and... My blade found nothing.“Where are you?” the warrior bellowed, feet stamping. He swung again, but it sounded farther away.“You just missed him, Master,” Zanyia shouted. “Take two steps forward.”I did, each one hesitant. I had no idea what I stepped on. The glade was uneven, the ground treacherous. The warrior’s feet stamped before me. I thrust. “I like you, kid,” her mentor had told her another time, “hell, you’re like the daughter I never had. But you sure you’re ready for this job?” It burned that he’d even ask. Mike Dennehy, the most respected newshound on the Chronicle, had taught her everything worth knowing. “I’m not some sweet little ingenue,” she protested, “even if I still look it. I know how to track down a story.” “You've got the smarts,” he said, “and the tenacity, more than any cub reporter I ever knew, but I’m talkin’ like a father here. In this game you gotta go the extra mile. And that can take you down some sleazy alleyways. Sometimes you gotta get dirty.” “Hey, I can get dirty,” she’d insisted. In front of that door, her fingers curled to rap on the peeling surface, her words returned to haunt her. She fought the tide of memory from her abortive first attempt to interview Jake Milazzo. For three days now she’d lived with those images. That time around his stoner roommate had let her in, greeting her.
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