Renegade by Nancy Northcott

and flung what power she could at the fence.
    Around her, mages jerked upright, shielding as they recovered. Others struggled to rise, groaning. Or lay too still, too silent. The sight stabbed grief and guilt into her throat, but she had a job to do.
    Meanwhile, medevac should be rushing in. If only they could translocate, but that destroyed magical shielding, and materializing without it in a battle zone was suicide.
    The compound yard held squat barricades that hadn’t been visible before. A couple of dozen ghouls knelt behind them with leveled automatic weapons. Shit!
    “Fall back,” she shouted, then loosed another, more scattered burst of power to pass through the chain link of the fence and explode the bullets the ghouls fired. She didn’t have the range to reach the weapons themselves.
    Some rounds blew in midair, flares of silver and red that sent shrapnel pinging off the fence or clattering off the buildings. Others zinged unhindered toward her deputies as the brrrrrrr of weapons fire continued.
    Concentrated automatic weapons fire could penetrate magical shields, and kill a mage. But it couldn’t destroy a ghoul unless it came from a mage-crafted firearm, and those were about as common as snow in Miami since ghouls targeted mageborn gunsmiths.
    She yanked her sword from the scabbard, drawing power and focusing it through the blade as her team’s crossbow quarrels shot past her. “Longbows,” she shouted. “Loose at will.”
    Arrows flew up and into the compound, rained down on the defenders, but not nearly as many as there should’ve been. That scattering couldn’t come from more than three bowmen. Three, out of eight. Hell.
    She sent more power streaming from her blade into the compound. The four-mage medevac team and the reserve force, six mages, charged into the clearing. Val knelt with the reserves, forming a human wall to pour destructive energy at the rounds flying their way while their comrades translocated out.
    Guilt beat at her brain as she tallied the numbers, living and dead. No one would be left behind for the ghouls to drain, breed, or eat.
    Almost done, the last ones were leaving. She backed up, wincing at a flash of pain from her left ankle. The reserves, still miraculously intact, moved with her. At least the ghouls weren’t charging.
    A little farther, just a little, and her group could translocate directly to the choppers. Still no pursuit. Strange, but she’d take what they could get and be grate—
    The ground under her detonated, the shock wave flinging her toward an oak tree. Twisting, she managed not to hit with her head, but her chest slammed into the trunk. Even her vest couldn’t keep fire from exploding inside her, and then darkness swallowed the world.
      
    Frozen in horror by the scrying bowl, Griff watched Valeria slam into the oak’s broad trunk. The impact knifed into his heart, crushed the breath from his lungs.
    She dropped to the ground like a wet rag and lay motionless. “Move,” he snapped. “Move, damn it.”
    She had to be alive.
    Ghouls poured out of their compound, charging the survivors, and he swore. His fists balled. She was almost two hundred miles away. He couldn’t translocate that far. No one could. He could only stand there and watch while—
    A silvery wave of mage power swept the clearing and flung back the ghoul attack. A clump of filthy, bloodied survivors ran to their comrades’ aid. Two of them picked up Valeria. Another pair grabbed the tall man who’d fallen beside her. A pair of medics in stained camos grabbed another.
    The others, with help, flashed away while a mere three haggard, dirty mages, one with an arm in a makeshift sling and another leaning on a tree-branch crutch, covered their retreat. A crossbowman staggered up to join them, a woman. Swaying on her feet, she fired behind their power blasts.
    Griff followed the group carrying Valeria until, in midstep, they winked out of sight. Screened. Effectively this time. The rear