Blood mask

Being an amputee had not made him any less dangerous; the albino hellhound was swifter than any of us expected. He had an arm around Velvet Remedy, his claws -- sharp enough and strong enough to slice metal -- right against her face! Their barest touch was drawing blood.

 Velvet eeped sharply.

“How fast?” he challenged coldly.

I levitated Little Macintosh in front of me. “Let her go, real gentle, or you are so amazingly dead it won’t matter.”

Astonishingly, the crippled hellhound stared down the five guns pointed at him and didn’t blink.

Velvet’s horn flashed. The hellhound dropped limply back onto his bed, one of his claws sliding across Velvet’s face as his hand fell away. Blood gushed from the wound, staggering her.

“Don’t shoot him,” she ordered as she stumbled back, holding a hoof to her face. The claw had barely missed slicing open one of her eyes.

“Littlepip! Your spell. Please!”

We had used up all the healing bandages and potions that we had. There was nothing left to aid Velvet with but the dark spell I had been granted by The Black Book. Once again, I let myself draw on that knowledge to create a cast from Velvet’s own blood, wrapping half her head in a ruddy mask.