Reckoning

was also the most patient and approachable out of any of them except maybe Bruce. His winged eyebrows rose slightly, and if he was surprised to see us it didn’t show.

His hand shot out, bracing him as he half-stepped down and stretched his other hand toward me.

We were so close.

The glare was sudden and immediate, klieg lights switching on. Nat whirled, snarling, the white light tearing through my dark-adapted eyes. I flung up a hand, and there was a whining roar.

Hiro leapt, a small black shadow. The helicopter made a grinding noise, and the missile hit it squarely.

“Get down!” Christophe shoved me, hard. I fell, losing skin on my palms as I tried to catch myself, skidding across the rough pebbled surface of the rooftop. Then the world turned white and rolled over, lifting up away from me. Every other massive noise that night paled in comparison. A giant warm hand scooped me up and flung me, air suddenly hard as concrete, and I skidded right off the edge of the roof. Somehow my body twisted, saving me without thought, claws dug into the side of the building with a terrific jolt almost breaking my wrists, my shoulders grating with pain. I hung, and it was a good thing, because flames belched over the lip of the roof and my hands let out another agonizing shriek of pain.

The touch swelled, a pipe organ of agony as nosferat shrieks cut through the din like hot knives through soft butter. The aspect was scorching, flowing over me, and my toes scrabbled against the side of the building, seeking purchase. Nothing, they just slipped, my arms tensed. My wrists and shoulders shrieked as I tried to haul myself up, but even with superstrength the angle was wrong. I smelled copper—thin rivulets of heat slid down my arms, soaking into my T-shirt.

Blood. My blood. The hunger woke up, fueling a burst of unhealthy strength. I let out a huuungh of effort, lost but still embarrassing under all the other racket. Managed a couple of inches, but my arms were shaking. My claws were ripping, little bit by bit, out of my fingertips.

Have you ever had your fingernails slowly torn off? It’s not fun.

I tensed again, everything focused on bending my arms. But I was tired, we’d run a long way, and the smell of blood wasn’t just taunting me. It was filling my head with smoky rage, hard to think, and my strength was bleeding away too.

I felt instead of heard the skkkkritch! as my claws slipped, and then I was plummeting like a star, eight stories passing in an eyeblink. Spinning catlike in midair, got my feet under me, and the aspect flexed, snapping like a rubber band over every inch of skin I owned.

Landed hard enough to jolt the breath out of me, but nothing broke. My hands were raw pieces of meatpain; I lifted them both to my mouth and got a faceful of bloodscent. It sent me to my knees on a drift of garbage, and I spun aside instinctively as flaming wreckage began drifting down into the alley.

What the hell? But it was obvious. Someone had blown up the helicopter. With a rocket, no less. Just waiting for us to get there before they opened fire.

Hiro. Christophe. Nat. Oh, God.

Nosferatu hunting-screams rose like bright ribbons in the night. They jabbed through my head, iceglass spikes, and my back hit the brick wall of the alley. It was filthy down here, and the heat and humidity just made it worse. I heard muffled wingbeats, and Gran’s owl filled itself in. It soared down, dodging falling bits of fiery refuse as they cartwheeled silently into the alley. The bird was a charcoal sketch, its feathers just suggestions of paleness. It made a tight circle over me, kept gliding.

Can’t go back up there; they could have other guns to pick everyone off. Think, Dru!

My thinker sputtered like an old engine. Houston. He said Houston. You’re in enemy territory, there’s mad hexers and a bunch of nosferatu roaming around, and you’re bleeding. You’ve just run halfway across the city and anyone who might help you is probably running for their life too right now.

Yep. It was official. I ruined everything, I was a disease. No matter how bad shit got, there was always worse coming down the pike.

I braced myself against the wall. I didn’t have much time—the suckers were going to get here any second to mop up whatever was left. Going up to rescue anyone was impossible, and idiotic too. But Christophe. And Nat . . .

Get the hell away from here. That’s the first step.

I coughed, hard. Cleared my lungs. My hands were moving, flipping up the flap of my messenger bag. The aspect burned against my fingertips, soothing and repairing. I found the switchblade by touch and fished it out. It snicked open, and I suddenly felt much calmer.

This is a test, Dru. You don’t have anyone else to take care of now.

Gran’s owl zoomed away. I bolted for the mouth of the alley, following it and dodging flaming wreckage.

And I vanished into the night.

PART TWO

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It probably says something for American cities that a teenage svetocha, covered in grime and soot and with blood streaking her arms, can pass largely unnoticed. Just what it says ain’t nice.

I wasn’t on autopilot, but I wasn’t quite myself either. The touch was a loosely waving anemone around me, steering me away from the edges of trouble. I crouched for a good fifteen minutes in a dumpster once, peering out between the lid and the lip of it, my feet slipping a little on greasy crud and my eyes watering from the stench. It covered up the thick aroma of cinnamon rolls boiling up from my skin, though. And while I watched, gagging every few moments and trying desperately not to throw up, I saw things.

Dogs built of smoke and fine hexwork, thin red and blue threads coalescing in steam vapor as they ran through the streets, searching. Little tiny flying things, that same red and blue hexwork, hanging from threads like puppet butterflies. And the black paper-cutout shadows of suckers, blurring through and trailing bright spangled streaks of hatred.

This is a lot of trouble for one little svetocha, don’t you think? I held down my gag reflex by sheer will, again. My sneakers slipped in crud, and a thin cold finger of liquid touched my ankle. Oh, gross. So gross.

I found a residential section, and it took me a good hour to find a car worth stealing. It was a Jeep Wagoneer, spare ignition key left under the front floor mat—don’t ask, some people are just that dumb—and this time I didn’t stop to see if there were insurance papers in the glove box. Because the hunting cries were still rising all over the city in crystal chill columns of hate, the more frequent the closer dawn came. The eastern sky held a faint tinge of gray, but not nearly enough to suit me.

Gran’s owl circled overhead, and with it floating in front of me I penetrated a tangle of side streets and— luck or the touch, I’m not sure—found a freeway on–ramp. 75-86 South; that would take me to 65 South. Then I’d cut west, and I’d be in Houston in a couple days if the car held out, less if I pushed it and drove the whole, what, fourteen hours or so?

Just get clear of the blast zone, Dru. Then hole up somewhere and do some thinking. I’d say this requires some heavy thought, at least.

I jammed the accelerator down. The Jeep picked it up, and the sound of the freeway filled my ears because I had the front windows down. I was never stealing a car without power windows again, dammit.

I wiped at my cheeks, but I found out I wasn’t crying. It was some kind of occasion—everything going to hell and a vampire attack, and for once I wasn’t leaking.