Doc Sidhe

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Harris came up off his jumping foot and brought the same leg up before him in extension—a flying side kick straight out of tournament demonstrations. The huge man felt like Jell-O, but he still fell over backwards. Harris hit the ground hard, too, but scrambled up instantly. "Gaby?"

The bag the man had dropped said, "Harris?" and her arm stretched out of it.

The old man said, "Mine." He stepped out of the way. "Phipps, I need this young man removed. Adonis, get up."

"Gaby, get the hell out of here!"

The third man pulled something from under his armpit. Harris felt fear clutching at him, but he charged and side-kicked just as Phipps got his revolver out into the open. The kick connected, knocking the man clean off his feet.

Harris almost grinned. From the opening bell to the knockout, one point five seconds. Not bad for a drunk loser. He bent over, grabbed Phipps' revolver, and swung it around to aim at the others.

The huge man's gloved hand clamped down on the barrel and yanked. The gun fired into nothingness and the huge man flung it off into the darkness. With his free hand, he pulled his hat away from his head and looked down at Harris. Moonlight illuminated his face.

His skin, cinnamon brown, hung in packed layers of wrinkles like earthworms laid lengthwise. No mouth or ears were discernible, but there were eyes, animal's eyes, set deep in. Harris took an involuntary step back, looking for the seam that proved this was a mask.

But the mouth opened. It was too large and too wide to belong to any human. No man or woman possessed a forest of sharklike teeth like those. It twisted into a smile.

The Smile mocked him.