Stabbed through leg

As Amoracchius swept down, Nicodemus, his face twisted in pain, lifted not his sword to block Michael’s—but the Holy Grail.
Michael let out a cry and twisted at the hips, pulling his blade to one side, and the blow swept past Nicodemus without touching him. Michael landed off-balance and fell into a heavy roll. From the ground, Nicodemus thrust his slender blade at Michael’s back, and sank the tip into the back of one of his thighs. Michael cried out in pain, and came up to his feet heavily, favoring his wounded leg.
Nicodemus rose, his dark eyes glittering, holding his left arm in close to his ribs, where the hailstone had hit him, favoring that side, and moving stiffly. He turned to make sure he could see both me and Michael, and had visible trouble shifting his weight. He was hurt.
But not nearly hurt enough to suit me.
I called another hailstone to my staff. I raised it and aimed.
Nicodemus lifted the Grail again, a small smile on his face as he held it between me and him as a hostage. “Careful, Dresden,” he said. “Are you willing to accept such a loss?”
“Yep,” I said, and snarled, “Forzare!” again, sending another hailstone at him.
Nicodemus’s eyes widened, but he turned his body to shield the Grail, and the hailstone struck him in the right shoulder blade. He let out another breathless cry—and then sudden blackness engulfed him and a tide of shadow swept him away.
“Michael,” I said, and hurried to my friend’s side.
Michael’s eyes were busy, roaming left and right, looking for Nicodemus. He turned so that I could see the wound. It was a thrust, narrow but deep. There wasn’t an inordinate amount of blood staining the leg of his jeans, and I didn’t think it had gone into the artery.
“What happened there?” I asked. “Is he gone?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure . . . ,” Michael said. “I’ve never seen him forced to run before.”
“We should finish him.”
“Agreed,” Michael said. “How? He just flew away.”
“Gimme a minute,” I said, and felt myself baring my teeth in a grin. “How does the leg feel?”
“I’ve had worse,” Michael said, his voice strained. He shifted his weight, testing the leg, and made a hissing sound—but it supported his weight. “Only a flesh wound.”
“Yeah,” I said. “’Tis but a scratch. Come on, ya pansy.”
He blinked and looked at me. “Pansy?”
“Oh,” I said. “You weren’t quoting the movie. Sorry.”
“Movie?”
“Holy Grail?”
“Nicodemus still has it.”
I sighed. “Never mind.”


Skin Game Chapter 45, Page 381-382