I broke into a jog, moving as quickly and silently as I could.

“What is it?” Bianca asked.

“Here, catch.”

I stumbled back, hit by a lash of chaos so strong it left me blinking, blinded.

I squeezed my eyes shut, brain screaming, knowing what was coming and fighting to stop—

Bianca’s face. Her horror. Reduced to pants-wetting terror as she saw the gun lift, the gunman’s finger on the trigger, and knew she couldn’t escape, couldn’t scream, wouldn’t have time. The bullet spit from the gun, near silent, hitting her square in the forehead. I heard her last thought, a mental scream of defiance. No! Not me! Not now! Then…silence.

I could see Bianca’s horror, recognize her horror, be horrified by it and yet, I felt none of it, consumed as the chaos flooded me, leaving me trembling and panting and…Oh, God. Wanting more.

The first time I’d felt someone die, that night I’d met Karl, it had been too strong, like my first shot of hard liquor, leaving me reeling, no pleasure to be taken. And I’d been relieved. So relieved. However screwed up my lust for chaos, at least I was never going to enjoy that. I’d soon realized I’d been wrong. Like liquor, it was only the first hit that stung.

As the vision dimmed, I saw a man bend over Bianca’s body. Average height, dark-haired, late thirties, Latino, with a heavy jacket and loose pants.

The gunman checked Bianca’s pulse. No chaos vibes emanated from him. With nothing to keep the vision going, it continued to fade.

The door swung open. The gunman strode into the hall and, for a second, I couldn’t move. Then the man wheeled, gaze going to mine, eyes widening in shock and I realized, with an oddly calm clarity, that I was standing twenty feet from the man who’d just shot Bianca. Chaos still buzzed through my head, numbing my reflexes. If he had lifted his gun and fired, I don’t know if there’d have been anything I could have done about it.

But he just stared at me, as if in shock himself. I felt the weight of my gun in my hand, but before I could unthinkingly lift it, I realized he had the advantage. My gun hung at my side, fingers grasping it awkwardly, my readiness thrown off by the chaos blast.

I wheeled and ran.

The door was only a few steps away, but I zagged to it rather than taking a straight path, recalling my defense lessons against spellcasts. My brain tripped ahead, laying out a memory map of the club and showing me places to hide.

Hide was what I had to do. All the exits were at least fifty feet away, and no amount of zigging and zagging would get me that far without a bullet through my back.