(AFK WORM) CHAPTER ELEVEN

When the men finally moved, rushing her from several directions at once with the crude confidence of people accustomed to easy victories, something within Shemira shifted in a way she had not anticipated. The moment should have been chaotic, loud, and overwhelming, yet instead the world seemed to pull back from her slightly, as though she were observing the scene distantly. The noise of the street, the muttered voices from the nearby encampments, and even the thud of hurried footsteps faded into something muffled and indistinct. And in that strange clarity, her thoughts turned inward even as her body began to move.

Her nature as a Graveborn had given her an undeniable connection to death, and she had felt it since the spirit orb came into existence, since the quiet pull that now accompanied her whenever the boundary between life and death thinned nearby. Yet what did that affinity mean for the other half of her, the woman who had once been Annette Hebert, a teacher, a mother, and someone who had spent years teaching rather than dealing with death? 

A fist came swinging toward her from the left, thrown without much discipline or strength, and she ducked beneath it almost before she consciously registered the strike. The motion carried her forward, and as she turned with it, her foot lashed out in a smooth arc that caught another attacker off balance. 

The street itself provided the next advantage without her needing to think about it, loose stones and broken glass shifting under her heel as she twisted and sent them scattering upward. Several pieces struck the man in the face, one glancing sharply against his eye, and his shout of pain gave her the opening to bring her heel down with controlled force against his shoulder and neck. He collapsed hard onto the pavement, breath rushing from him as consciousness fled.

Even as he fell, and she continued moving, the question lingered.

Annette was not a fighter, and in truth neither had Shemira been one in the traditional sense. Yet her body responded to danger with a fluidity that still surprised her. She twisted and stepped through the tightening circle of attackers, her awareness expanding outward through the silent presence of the orb until the concept of a blind spot ceased to hold meaning.

And with that awareness also came the knowledge on just how much force it would take to kill someone.

That was the crux of the problem she had been circling since the day she found the dying man in the alley.

Understanding her magic required death, and not just the presence of it. The spirit orb had shown her that much already, revealing that the power she carried came from souls crossing the veil under her influence. If she wished to understand her abilities, to grow her confidence in using them rather than depend on foreign instincts, then eventually she would have to kill. She would have to take the departing spirits and twist them into skills and tools that served her will.

But Annette was not a killer.

That truth remained at the forefront of her mind, even as she pivoted away from another attacker’s swing, her body flowing from one motion to the next. Annette was not so naive as to pretend that violence had no place in the world. She lived in Brockton Bay of all places, was once part of Lustrum’s gang, and even now she understood that there were moments when doing what was necessary meant crossing lines most people preferred not to acknowledge.

Yet understanding the necessity of something and actually committing to it were very different things.

Killing was something that still felt fundamentally wrong.

Her foot slid backward as she repositioned to create distance, but the momentary distraction of her thoughts slowed her just enough that the next attack came closer than she intended. The crowbar swung again, this time with more speed and strength than she expected, and she had no room to slip entirely clear. She had to raise her arm and turn into the strike, catching the blow with her elbow in a deflecting motion that redirected some of the force away from her torso.

Pain shot up her arm immediately, sharp enough to pull a hiss from between her teeth.

The impact should have broken something. She knew that instinctively, just as she knew the exact pressure that could stop a heart. Yet her arm held, bruised and throbbing but intact, and she realized in that moment that whatever magic now lived within her had granted more than awareness and affinity. There was a measure of durability there as well, enough to consider her stronger than the average person. 

Even so, the message was clear.

She needed to focus.

Confidence, no matter how justified, could become carelessness if she allowed herself to drift too far into thought while men with weapons stood within arm’s reach. She might be stronger than each of them individually, and perhaps even stronger than all of them together, but one mistake in a fight like this could still end badly. And she had no intention of explaining such injuries to Danny or Taylor.

Drawing herself fully back into the present, she pushed through the lingering pain and moved with renewed intent. A knife flashed toward her face from the side, its chipped edge catching what little light the street provided, and she slapped the attacker’s wrist aside before stepping inside his reach. Her palm drove forward a moment later, striking squarely against his nose with a force that snapped his head backward and sent him stumbling to the ground in a daze.

Satisfied that two of them were no longer immediate threats, she allowed her attention to settle on the man who had been wielding the crowbar, though she kept the other attacker, the man holding the rusted pipe, firmly within her awareness as well. Their earlier confidence had faded into something more uncertain, their movements slower as they reconsidered the situation they had so eagerly created.

Part of her knew she should leave while she had the chance, return home before anyone else decided to intervene, and perhaps have someone look at her arm before the swelling worsened. The sensible choice was obvious, and Annette’s instincts leaned strongly in that direction.

Yet beneath that practicality, another sensation was building, like the feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff.

She was close to understanding something important.

The thought came with a faint pressure in her chest, a sense that her magic was waiting just beneath the surface of the moment, ready to respond if the tension escalated further. If the conflict ended now, she suspected she might lose the opportunity to understand what it wanted from her.

Which meant the hesitation they felt needed to disappear immediately.

If hesitation had entered the men’s minds, then she would simply remove it. There were many ways to provoke someone, to override their caution and push them back into action, and men like these, she suspected, were particularly vulnerable to insults that struck at their pride.

“I thought you boys wanted lil old me,” she said, letting her smile widen in a way that suggested amusement and disappointment. “Don’t tell me you are having… performance issues.”

The words felt a little awkward even as she spoke them. It was not a tactic she had much experience with, and she suspected the delivery lacked the effortless confidence someone more practiced might have managed. Even so, she knew enough about fragile masculinity to understand that the meaning would land regardless of how elegantly it was phrased.

The reaction was immediate.

Their faces twisted into snarls as embarrassment gave way to aggression, and then they rushed her again, their weapons raised above their head again, and their voices rising even louder into furious shouts.

Exactly what she had been waiting for.