blocks fomor lightning

The FSC had decided to stop worrying about whatever I’d had to say, meanwhile. They turned their focus on me again, and I felt them gathering power to strike—and they wouldn’t go with the same attack a second time.
I shook out my shield bracelet, sending power coursing into it, building up layers of magical defenses in a half-dome shape in front of me. My shield bracelet went scorching hot almost instantly: Even if I’d had the additional magical fuel from all the power in the air, the tool wasn’t designed to handle all the extra juice—but it was my only chance of surviving a strike from all of them.
“Boot to the head!” I shouted again.
“Nah, nah?” Butters sang back tentatively.
“No, dammit!” I screamed. “Boot! Head!” I lifted a foot and waved it.
Butters’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. And then went a bit wider in pure intimidation.
The FSC struck at me with black lightning in staggered bursts. The bolts rained in like a thunderstorm, irregular and savage, spaced maybe half a second apart. I stumbled, fell to a knee, and poured everything I could into the shield, and for a few seconds the world was blinding, deafening fury.
When it passed, my shield bracelet was actually glowing red-hot at the edges, and I could smell my own scorched hair and flesh, even if I didn’t feel much of it. (I still felt the burn Butters had given me, though. That one wasn’t stopping.) Except for a half circle in front of me, the concrete was seared black for ten feet in every direction—the burn’s end was precisely described by the glowing edge of my shield. There was no sound, no sound at all, other than this ringing sensation in my skull.
I looked drunkenly back at Butters.

Battle Ground Chapter 28, Page 258