An Astronomer's Guide to Falling Angels

Chapter 26

Arty's eyes flicked around the circle of thugs that Phillip had gathered, sizing them up. She wasn't scared, though anyone else in her position might have been. These guys were stronger than her, sure, but brute strength wasn't everything. They lacked her experience, her instincts. She had fought through worse odds than this—surviving wasn't something that scared her.

Phillip stepped back, letting his cronies do the dirty work, his ever-present smirk plastered across his face as if he was already savouring his victory. But Arty knew she wasn't about to give him that satisfaction. Not now, not ever.

The first of his goons lunged at her, but Arty moved like water, swift and sharp. She dodged, bringing her flashlight down hard on his head. The metal connected with a sickening crack, and the man crumpled to the ground, clutching his skull. The others wasted no time, closing in, fists raised. Arty swung her flashlight again, landing a hit on another man's jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

But they were closing in fast.

One of them grabbed her from behind, locking her arms to her sides. Arty gritted her teeth and threw her head back, the back of her skull smashing into the man's nose. He let out a grunt of pain, loosening his grip just enough for her to elbow him in the gut. She spun around and delivered a well-timed kick to his chest, sending him staggering.

Another goon rushed her from the side, his fist aimed at her head. Arty ducked, then brought her knee up into his ribs, hearing a satisfying crack. He groaned and doubled over, clutching his side as she threw another punch, this time to his face, knocking him to the ground.

Three down. But she was starting to feel the strain. Her breaths were coming quicker, and her muscles burned from the effort. She could feel her ankle throbbing from where one of them had landed a particularly nasty kick earlier, and her arm ached from blocking hits.

Two men remained, and they weren't going to make it easy. They moved together this time, charging her at once. One of them grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully while the other slammed a fist into her side. Arty gasped, pain flaring through her ribs, but she didn't stop. She yanked her arm free with a sharp twist, then smashed her head into the man holding her, disorienting him. Using the brief opening, she kicked the other one square in the chest, knocking him off balance.

But the damage was done. Her ankle felt like it was on fire, and her arm hung limply at her side—possibly broken. Blood trickled down her face from a cut above her eyebrow, and her whole body throbbed with the effort of fighting off Phillip's gang.

She took a step back, breathing hard, as the two remaining men charged her again. With sheer willpower, Arty threw herself forward, using the momentum to deliver a hard punch to the first man's throat. He collapsed, gasping for air, leaving just one more. The last thug made the mistake of hesitating, giving Arty just enough time to deliver a brutal kick to his knee, sending him crashing to the ground.

It was over. The goons lay in crumpled heaps around her, groaning in pain.

But Arty wasn't celebrating. She could barely stand, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and her vision swam. She had beaten them, yes, but the fight had taken everything out of her. And then there was Phillip.

He clapped slowly, his smirk growing wider as he stepped forward, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes. "Impressive, Arty. I always knew you had a fight in you. But that? That was something else."

Arty's eyes locked on Phillip's as he pulled a knife from his jacket, its blade catching the faint moonlight. Her heart sank, but she didn't let it show.

"You think this is over?" Phillip sneered, flipping the knife in his hand as he approached her. "You think you've won?"

Arty gritted her teeth, standing her ground even as her body screamed at her to rest. Her broken ankle made it impossible to stand properly, but she steadied herself as best as she could. "I think you're a coward," she spat, her voice sharp despite her exhaustion. "Letting your goons do all the work. What's wrong, Phillip? Too scared to face me yourself?"