KOs Ghould

The thug who hit the drywall was tough. He bounced off it, completed drawing his silenced pistol, dropped to a knee, and aimed at Harvey.
No time to pull together a shield, not without the advantage of a specialized magical tool to make it happen. So I spun, putting my back between the shooter and Harvey, bowed my head forward as far as I could, and hunched my shoulders.
The gun coughed, clack, clack, clack. Slugs smashed against my back, only to be defeated by the painstaking protective energies I had spell-wrought into the leather duster I wore. I counted eight hits, all of which felt like taking a Little League fastball to the back—painful but not debilitating. Then the gun fell silent and I heard the metallic click of a magazine being released.
I whirled and slashed the end of my staff at the gunman. The heavy oak smashed against the wrist of his gun hand and knocked away the fresh magazine he’d been about to load. I followed up with a backswing and hit him on the jaw right below his ear and sent him sprawling to the floor, the gun tumbling free.
I kicked the gun away from him, and hauled Harvey to his feet. He was staring at the downed gunman, aghast.
“That . . . that man just tried to kill you.”
“No,” I said. “He just tried to kill you. Seriously, dude, what part of come with me if you want to live did you not understand?”


Skin Game Chapter 17, Page 121