“Come on.” I pulled Ethan behind me, and I made for the front of the house where we’d parked. “Do you have your keys?”
Before we stepped around the rusted fender that separated the side yard from the front yard, I felt it again. The black hole. The void of emotion. With the group behind us and our car in front, we didn’t have a choice but to face the thing that had chased me into the alley. I wanted to swear. Our chances of escape were slim. I tightened my grip on Ethan’s hand and stepped forward.
The man I’d glimpsed at the bar, just before he’d turned into a dog, stood in the front yard. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall and close to three hundred pounds. Even with his hands loosely in the pockets of his dress pants, his biceps bulged beneath his shirt. I swallowed hard and eyed his neck. The width of it competed with the width of his jaw. He was built for fighting. My heart skipped a beat at the same time my stomach plunged to my toes. His precisely combed dark hair and pressed slacks were obviously meant to mislead his opponent. Was there any chance for us?
My gaze drifted to the older man who stood beside the fighter. He’d put the chokehold on the beast once before. However, he didn’t look like he would offer any help this time. His light grey gaze studied me, and I felt a hint of hope and sorrow from him, an odd combination of emotions.
Focusing on the fighter once more, I tried to come up with a plan.
The man’s dark brown eyes flicked to my hand, the one wrapped around Ethan’s, before meeting mine. Something in that glance had me stepping protectively in front of Ethan.
“Isabelle,” the man’s low voice sent a shiver of dread through me, “let the boy go.”
He was right. Ethan wasn’t involved in this. They wanted me.
“Ethan, this time listen.”
I released his hand and gave him a nudge before sprinting at the man. Instead of trying to hit him—something he was sure to anticipate—I dropped. Balancing on my hands, I kicked out a leg and hooked him behind the knee with my calf. As he buckled, I used the hold on his leg to pull myself up behind him.
He landed in a three-point stance with his head bent as if in prayer. I twisted and grabbed a piece of rusted metal from a nearby pile. Ignoring the jagged edge that bit into my palm, I swung my ghetto weapon at his head. But he was too fast. He turned, caught my wrist, and tugged forward. He pulled me off balance, and I landed on his knee like a little girl on Santa’s lap.
Our gazes locked. My breath heaved in and out as my stomach cramped with fear not my own. Crap. Ethan. I heard him struggling with someone. He hadn’t run.
The man’s eyes didn’t waver from mine, and I realized he wasn’t moving. Neither was I. I still had another hand free. I needed to pull more—
“You’re bleeding.”
The man’s steady voice confused me. Why didn’t he sound angry?
I could feel Ethan’s fear, worry from three of the people, and annoyance from another, but nothing from the man holding me by the wrist. I hated not feeling anything from him. I couldn’t steal what I couldn’t feel. How could I fight him?
As he stood, pulling me up with him, his fingers trembled around my wrist. A weak hold? I swung with my left arm. Not a strong swing, but it was better than just standing there. He caught that wrist, too, leaving me no choice. If I couldn’t pull emotion from him, I’d pull from everyone else.
I breathed in Ethan’s fear, the group’s worry and impatience, and the neighbors’ desolation and hopelessness. Carefully, I pulled what I needed without reducing Ethan to an immobile puddle. Again and again, I stole from them. The man watched me breathe in and out. The emotions expanded within me, a ball of raw power. My insides hardened. My muscles twitched. The man before me frowned as he studied my face...my rage.
A quick twist freed my right hand. He didn’t try to reclaim it, and I narrowed my eyes at him. What game did he play?
I breathed again, taking everything I could and stomped on his foot. He flinched, and I pulled my other hand free. My skin tingled painfully. Too many emotions swirled within me. I struck out and connected with his face. His head snapped to the side. My wrist crunched. It should have hurt, but I was too full of everything else and didn’t feel anything. He frowned. I swung again, but this time he blocked it with an open palm. His warm fingers curled around my fist for just a moment. I pulled back and tried again.
He blocked each strike, moving fluidly with me. The pressure behind my skin eased. It was like I was back in the play yard with Ethan. A small smile broke free with that thought.