Shadow Fall

“Stay back,” the man said, retreating a few paces himself.

Custo looked around. Where the hell was he? Tall buildings rose around him, most of them gray, but one had a shiny mirrored surface.

He turned and lurched into a jog, his hand skimming the building for support. When he found his balance, he picked up speed, ducking into a service alley when he heard the twerp of a police car. He waited there, shaking with shock and a strange sense of vertigo.

Custo held up his hand, stretching the dark lines of his palm, then flipped it over. It appeared to be his own, minus the ragged scar across his knuckles. He closed his fingers into a fist and squeezed until his hand burned. Strong again. He wasn’t a ghost, that was for sure. Angel? He had no idea. Maybe he should have asked more questions of Luca when he’d had the chance.

He tried his angel’s trick and opened his mind. Humanity crashed into his consciousness, soul after soul, their inner voices crowding out all coherent thought. Too much, too much. He tried to disengage, but couldn’t find himself in the chaotic press. A last gasp, and he sought her. He reached for her like a lifeline and felt a blissful tug. Sanity returned with the knowledge that the girl was safe, inside. And?—he touched her mind—she was getting ready to head home and she was arming herself for a fight.

His new heart clenched. What did she fear? Where?

The wolf. Had to be.

Custo recalled the wolf’s attack. The collision. The fall. Sickening guilt rushed through Custo’s veins. He was responsible for the beast’s cross into mortality. She’d somehow opened the way, but he brought the wolf through.

Well, the wolf couldn’t have her. Soon all of Segue would be searching for it, and the girl wouldn’t be bothered again. He’d just have to move fast.

Custo waited behind a Dumpster until some poor slob walked by alone. He grabbed him and dragged him into the alley with an arm around his neck and a hand over his mouth. The man bucked against him, but he was too short and light to do any damage.

“I only want your pants,” Custo growled in the man’s ear.

Three minutes later Custo staggered out of the alley fully clothed. He made for the nearest corner. The street signs read w FIFTY-SIXTH and AVE OF THE AMERICAS. New York City. Midtown.

Then he knew where to go. The Segue Institute had safe houses globally. New York City had four that Custo could think of. Four and one more, the last a secure location that only he and Adam knew about. Once there, he’d have access to supplies, cash, food, and weapons. Most importantly, he could find and warn Adam.

But not without the girl.

Chapter Three

ANNABELLA gripped her brand-new jumbo flashlight while she exited the heavy bronze door of City Center onto West Fifty-sixth. The flashlight was heavy, designed for camping, but there was no way she was going to be caught in the dark without her own source of light. Not with that freaky wolf on the loose—on the streets or in her head. She kept her finger on the power button, like a trigger. And when she got that silly-girl shaky feeling, she imagined turning on the light and smoking the monster.

Take that, you growling son of a bitch!

Her heartbeat accelerated as she stepped into a night of crackling energy. The one-way street was hissing with traffic, punctuated by the occasional blare of a horn. She headed directly to the curb to hail a cab. Her plan: carry her own light source everywhere, make it home safely, preferably with yummy takeout (she was starving), turn on every light in her studio apartment, all three of them, and sleep in the very brightest patch. She wasn’t about to let any real or imagined wolf take this chance away from her. Tomorrow she would debut as Giselle.

And then everything would go back to normal.

A cab drew alongside her. So far so good. She threw her bag along the backseat before sliding in herself, flashlight in her lap, choking for a second on a breath of strong Far Eastern incense.

Just as the driver pulled away from the curb, the opposite passenger door opened with a blast of thick exhaust. The cab jerked to a halt and Annabella startled, flicking a fat beam in the intruder’s direction.

“Cab’s taken,” she said when she recognized that it was a man—or at least, the lower half of one.

The man pushed her bag to the floor, got in anyway, and slammed the door. “West Thirty-sixth and Fifth,” he said. His low voice was rough with authority.

Jerk. “Hey, I was here first—”

The man turned his head and she swallowed her words.

Him.

In the partial illumination of the cab, his hair and skin washed to monochromatic shades of gold. His eyes were fair, direct, and tense, and he was slightly out of breath. A current of dark trouble ran along his barely controlled surface as he looked at her. Or rather, looked her over. His gaze settled on her flashlight and his brow furrowed in thought before one side of his mouth tugged up.

Heat flooded her body and burned her face.

“Lady?” the cabdriver asked over his shoulder.

No way. She got here first. And besides, she had to go straight home, have a nice dinner, relax, and get some rest for the gala tomorrow. Not to mention something was very wrong about this guy. His face might have been gorgeous, but his clothes were too small, clearly not his own. He’d rolled up the sleeves, but his shirt still didn’t fit across his broad shoulders. His pants were a joke, short by inches and straining across his thighs. One grand plie and the seams would rip.

Only one thing could make her change her mind, and she didn’t care if she sounded stupid. “You see a wolf lately?”

The man gave a short nod. “In the middle of your dance, onstage.”

Crap. She’d kinda been hoping she was crazy. She gnawed on her bottom lip. The least she could do for the man who put his body between her and a charging wolf was share a cab. Maybe he could even tell her what was going on.

She eased her grip on the flashlight and met the driver’s gaze. “It’s okay.”

The driver turned his attention to the road with a shrug and the cab pulled away from the curb.

The stranger didn’t relax, didn’t settle into his seat. His interest was focused on her—the weight of it had her clutching her flashlight again. The light might not hurt him, but she could brain him with the casing if she had to.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his words short and clipped.

“Annabella,” she answered, wary. “Yours?”

“Custo.” He darted a glance out the rear window, then came back to her. “You’re a dancer? A ballerina?”

“Yes.” She couldn’t help adding, “A principal with the Classical Ballet Theater. And you are…?”

“…taking you somewhere safe. Somewhere we can talk.” He winged his arm along the backrest.

Not likely. He could share her cab, but nothing else. No need to tell him that, though. He was keyed up enough already.

“What day is it?” he asked.

“Friday.”

“The date,” he clarified, his forehead tensing.

“October twenty-second.” October twenty-third was the gala performance, the start to the season. Her big day.

He frowned as if that still wasn’t the answer he wanted, but didn’t press. “Do you have a mobile phone?”

“Um…no, I don’t.” A white lie—she just hated loaning it out. Besides, that was her lifeline number two. Not that she’d call her mom again and take another ten years off the poor woman’s life. No, if she had to call anyone, she’d call the cops herself. Maybe for this guy.