The kid emptied his little automatic into my chest. The weapon, which would have been fine in a rumble between T-shirted hooligans battling over the loot from a smash and grab, made five little pops. Its light recoil made it no problem to keep on target. The first bullet slapped into my side with the sting of a bee, but after that, they hit with the power of a weak punch. The Old One stole the pain away and I knew my jacket’s kevlar lining had stopped the bullets from tearing flesh.