Quick footfalls from behind me, and the click of a well-oiled Glock nine-millimeter. My
bouncer, Violence Jones. “All right now, boys. Whatever this’s about, y’all take it outside.”
Gar turned his snarl toward Jones. “Be off to the ever -flames, pig- dog human!” And he
raised an arm to hurl a weapon.
“Dwarf, no!” The cry ca me from the corner of the room where the elf maiden sat with
her wine; but it was already too late. I don’t retain Jones for his restraint. Three gunshots— a
golden blur — and the she-elf stood in front of Gar with her arms outstretched and three red holes
in her belly.
“The hell’d she do that for?” said Jones. For him, that bordered on remorse. But before
anyone else could speak, the lady gave a wry grimace and the smoking lumps of lead popped out
of her slender midriff and clattered to the oaken floorboards.
“Oh, no,” I said aloud. “She’s one of the Lyrilim.”
*
Name’s Violence Jones. Yeah, that’s my real name. Mama’s a tough old bat. I’m full -
blood human, just like you, but I been bouncing at Dill’s for quite awhile now and I’ve gotten
used to some unusual things.
Now I’m a lean drink of water and Dill’s a big barrel -chested fella, but mark my words,
I could put him on his butt except for one thing: nephilim regenerate like God don’t want ’em
back. You could drop a house on one of those suckers, wait five seconds, and watch him mosey
out the front door. So when these weirdos take to fighting, it’s like a big game of rock -paper-
scissors: elfs are fast, dwarfs are strong, nephilim’re tough.
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