Free Immortal and the Madman (The Immortal Chronicles Book 3) by Gene Doucette Page B

that’s—”
    “I’m aware of the capabilities of a crossbow, thank you.  Please.”
    I stepped to my right, which put Corrigan between the weapon and I.  Sinclair found this amusing.
    “You are going to catch the bolts now?” Sinclair asked.
    John leaned over and picked up one of the swords on the floor.  “Not precisely.”
    Sinclair sighed and lowered the crossbow.  “Sir,” he said.  “I say this with all honesty.  You are a fine soldier, and clearly an honorable man.  I’m not an honorable man, and so if you forced I will drop you with this, and then I will kill the man behind you, and anyone else who is feeling honorable this evening, and then I will get who I came here for.  I would much prefer it if you stepped aside and let me do this thing.”
    “I’m happy that you would prefer to not kill us, Monsieur Sinclair.  I would remind you that your departure would also accomplish this feat.”
    “You won’t stand down, then?”
    “I’m afraid I cannot.”
    “Very well.”
    Sinclair fired.
    When you’re in the line of fire of a crossbow, prudence dictates ducking or hiding behind a thick object.  I had no thick objects to hide behind; only John, and he could avoid every other kind of attack—including, if his war stories were to be believed, one from a gun.  I thought it was likely, then, that if the crossbow bolt found any home, the home would be inside of me.
    All of which is to say my eyes were closed when the next thing happened, because I expected to die.
    I didn’t die.  I heard a metal-on-metal sound, and when I opened my eyes John had his sword raised and the bolt was stuck in the wall on the other side of the room.
    Looking at the faces of the Frenchmen I saw fear for the first time.  Apparently, John Corrigan had deflected a crossbow bolt from a few feet away with the flat of a sword blade.  If he could do that , I’m sure they were thinking, what else could he do?
    “Impossible!” Sinclair shouted. 
    It was a repeating crossbow, so he had a second shot, which he took.  This time I kept my eyes open, but it happened almost too fast to comprehend.  The bolt was due to strike John in the chest and would have landed true, but at the last second his sword—a blur—swiped up and across his body.  Redirected, the second shot landed in the wall right next to the first.
    The men with Sinclair looked legitimately spooked—I heard the word witch —and I had hopes that this performance might be enough to persuade them to leave.
    I also heard a gasp from an unexpected part of the room. 
    It was Joanne.  She had snuck through the kitchen door just in time to witness John’s last trick and now was just standing there, agape, apparently unaware that she had put herself in tremendous danger. 
    John heard her too.  He turned, stared for a couple of seconds, and then looked at me.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    He just smiled, a sad but relieved smile.  “It will be okay, my friend.”
    “What will?  I don’t understand.”
    But then I almost did, because Sinclair had reloaded his crossbow.
    “Yield,” the Frenchman said calmly.
    “I cannot,” John said.
    “Very well.”
    Sinclair fired again, but he wasn’t aiming for John at all this time.  He was shooting at Joanne.
    John knew it.  He jumped to his right and whipped the sword down in just such a way as to intercept the bolt before it could pass.  It landed in the floor well short of her.
    But in doing so John exposed himself.  Sinclair had fired twice rapidly, with his second shot cleverly targeting the space John had to occupy if he was going to intercept the first.
    The crossbow bolt made a sick, soft sound when it struck John in the stomach.  Immediately he fell over, clutching what was without question a mortal wound.  Joanne let out a scream that was overwhelmed by the cheer that went up on the other end of the room, and she ran to the side of our fallen friend.  I would have done the same but there was the