I jerked away. Another one buzzed toward me, slicing deep into my forearm. What the hell? I looked down. The pain didn’t strike until after my mind realized what I was seeing. One of my shuriken had all but disappeared inside the muscle of my forearm. Just a few pointed metal tips bristled out like a joke. It didn’t look real as blood beaded up along the edge of the gash. It felt real. The metal ground between the bones of my arm, rubbing deep inside. Icicles stabbed up my arm, nerves scrambling to make sense of the input overload. The garrote spilled from my limp fingers. The Ringmaster stood, endlessly tall. He seemed to stretch to the top of the circus tent. His skeleton arm rolled forward, snapping the bullwhip. It cracked the sound barrier a split second before hitting me like a gunshot. The tip of it cut my shirt, splitting the flesh underneath open. Father Mulcahy rose up, sword in hand. The Ringmaster was there before he could get his feet under him. The vampire’s hand flashed out, clipping the priest on the chin.
