I don’t think—I just react. I shift over to block Cora and Francia slams into my chest instead. But it’s like trying to hold a rabid raccoon. She’s so focused on her goal that she barely notices me. She just reaches over my shoulders and keeps clawing, screeching, scratching.
I shove her back, but before I can take a swing, Yasha beats me to it.
My second-in-command grabs Francia by the collar of her little black dress and flings her to the ground. She immediately tries to crawl back up, but he plants a foot in her chest and kicks down hard. Her head bounces off the tile with a nasty crack and she goes limp.
“Damn it,” Yasha mutters to himself. “I hoped that would last a little longer.”
More chairs scrape as Mikhail and Konstantin move closer for a better look.
“She’s breathing,” I te
