Page 44 of My Tiny Giant

“What are you doing here?” The professor stood back, startled, before perking up. “The fucking subject came back, all on his own. This is perfect! I’ll no longer have to deal with your barbaric general.”

The professor lunged for him, and Agan took off in a sprint, barely evading the Voranian’s hands. Dashing along the perimeter of the patio, he searched for a way out.

His boots slid in the snow, nearly sending him off the patio through the gap under the glass railing. His breath caught in his throat at the terrifying thought of falling off the top floor of the skyscraper. At this height, he couldn’t even see the dark street below.

“Come here!” The professor shrugged out of his coat then tossed it over Agan, trapping him under the heavy material.

Abruptly cut off from the world by the layers of thick fabric, Agan heard the muffled noise of the door sliding open.

“Where is Agan?” Emma’s voice rang high and clear.

Hope and fear clashed inside his chest.

What was she doing here? She was supposed to wait for him at the entrance to the ballroom—safe. Now she was here, facing the rogue professor, all on her own.

Panicking, he lashed out with both arms at the dark fabric trapping him, fighting to get free. Emma needed him out there.

The woman was incorrigible. Why did she not stay put? By the Abyss of Krokkan, he’d strive for a higher rank in the Army just so he could give her direct orders. Maybe then she’d listen to him?

The sounds of struggle filtered through the material of the coat—fists hitting flesh; a hard click, possibly the sound of the heel of Emma’s shoe hitting one of the Voranian’s horns. He desperately hoped Emma was pounding the professor in the head, not the other way around.

Frantically tearing at the fabric trap that swaddled him, he finally fought his way out from under the coat.

When he climbed out, Emma was lying on her back on the ground. The professor sat on top of her, both hands around her neck.

“Get off her!” Agan roared.

Pure rage spurred him into action. He dashed toward them, not knowing what he was going to do.

What could he do? Short of pulling the professor by the tail?

Getting hold of the Voranian’s tail just above the arrow-tip end, he did just that—he pulled at it with all his might.

The professor swished his tail through the air, shaking him off like a fly.

Agan rolled on the snow-covered mosaic tiles. His rage grew and bubbled over, filling the entire city it seemed. Yet rage alone, no matter how intense, was useless when one was barely tall enough to kick an adult in the shin.

He couldn’t let his puny size hold him back when Emma was in trouble. Roaming his gaze along the patio, he searched for a solution. He needed something. Anything. A flowerpot he could drop on the professor’s head. An AI button he could press to call for help.

With a strangled noise, Emma freed a leg from her skirts, kicking the professor in his crotch with her knee. He groaned, loosening his grip for a moment. She knocked his hands off her neck. Rolling out of his reach, she gathered her arms and feet under her, ready to get up.

The professor planted his hoof in her ribs, knocking her down and rolling her onto her back again.

“Give Agan to me, and I’ll leave,” she rasped, rising on her elbows.

The Voranian drew the laser gun from his belt and aimed it at her. “I need him more.”

Pressing her hands into the floor, she quickly lifted her hips up and kicked her foot out, knocking the gun out of his hand. The gun slid along the sleet-covered floor.

The next moment she was up on her feet again.

“Nasty female,” the professor hissed through his teeth. His tail lashed out, whipping around her legs and dropping her to the floor.

Agan dashed after the gun. The damn thing proved incredibly heavy because he was pathetically small and devastatingly weak.

There was no way he could lift the gun off the floor even by a hairbreadth. Gathering whatever strength he had, he heaved the gun upright, propping the oblong barrel on top of the purse that Emma had dropped. Hugging the handle with his arms, he pressed on the trigger with both hands, firing at the highest place he could aim—the good professor’s backside.

The blast seared through the Voranian’s pants. The smell of burning fur stunk up the frigid air of the patio.