Creed's body flew backward like a ragdoll kicked by a god.
The sheer force of the white energy had launched him out of the blast zone like a cannonball.
He crashed against the alley wall with a heavy THUD that echoed like a drumbeat of pain, then slumped to the floor, his boots dragging through the dirt as he hit the ground in a heap.
A hot wave of pain erupted in his arm, and before he even had time to check, a mouthful of hot, metallic blood burst out of his mouth and splashed onto the ground like red ink from a broken pen.
His right arm felt wrong. Like something had unscrewed the bones and replaced them with shattered glass.
When he finally looked down, he nearly gagged—his arm was mangled like a twisty breadstick that had lost a fight with a meat grinder.
Purple bruises and warped skin, muscles torn in ways that made his stomach churn. It looked quite serious.
