[b]Marcus – Garden District, Baton Rouge – Aubrey[/b]

Marcus' teeth clenched as she tugged on the arrow, momentarily distracting him with the intense radiation of pain that made his thigh feel like it was set ablaze. With his attention diverted, there was no way he could have prepared himself for the girl's cunning coup de grace.

The bow collided into the side of his skull with a force he could never have imagined. He grunted as blood flew from his mouth and his torso swung dangerously. Brilliant, white lights popped across his vision like fireworks and the world spun so violently he thought he might vomit.

Marcus fell to the floor, but just as she had almost extricated herself, his hands flung out and he grabbed her hard around the ankle.

“You...” he groaned, steadily becoming more coherent. “You crafty little cunt, you conniving bitch, you scullion! You rampallion! You fustilarian! I'll tickle your catastrophe!”

He lunged at her and wrapped a hand in her hair, pulling her head back ferociously. Just before he dipped his head to tear her throat open with his teeth, a loud noise made him freeze in his tracks and look up.

“Let her go!” commanded someone new, pale and trembling.

The first thing Marcus registered was the man's blanched face and trepidation. The second, however, was the bow he was holding and the arrow that was pointing between Marcus' eyes.

“You kids and your toys,” he spat. “Existing in your own Robin Hood fantasy land. Jejune, vapid worms!”

“Let her go,” the man repeated, with a slightly stronger note of confidence. “Or I'll kill you.”

“That cadence of pusillanimity suggests otherwise, sweet bowman.”

“You won't be able to pronounce those big words with an arrow stuck in your throat. Walk away.”

The smile faltered from Marcus' face. He could not risk it. With a look of deep loathing, he capitulated and let go of the girl, slowly backing away.

“Better run fast,” advised Marcus. “The mean men are coming.”

He watched the two archers flee into the distance, one's arm over the other's shoulder, fending off the dead. The sound of his demented cackling followed them, louder and more sinister than the firing of any bullet that day.