His Straight Pet
Akira.
She’s in the middle, bound to a chair, blood on her face, knives gone. “Akira!” I hiss, going to her, but Jude snatches me back. “Trap,” he says, and he’s right—guild minions step out of the shadows, maybe ten, all cloaks and knives, eyes flashing with that dark magic junk. “Seraphin filth,” one sneers, lunging at me. Jude’s shadows drive him into a wall, bones shattering, and I let my light fly, blasting another minion back.
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