Was she referring to the black kid, the white, or both? Hard to say. Beyond the certainty that it was a breed. I didn't know what in hell a Marbas was.
"Kick his ass," the leader of the pack snarled, and the three huge beastie boys moved forward like hulking monsters from a Dark Horse comic book.
I took a step forward, too, and Sawyer put a hand on my arm. "Wait," he breathed. "Watch."
I nearly ignored him. I couldn't just stand here and let the kid get pummeled. He might be as tall as the others but he wasn't as solid. They'd been eating steadily and well for most of their lives. He had not. Besides, it just annoyed the hell out of me when someone got picked on because they were different.
It did go back to my childhood. Sue me.
However, in the short time it took for Sawyer to speak and me to hesitate, the boy took care of himself.
One came at him from the right, another from the left, and a third from behind. He snatched the hands of the two on each side as they tried to punch him, and swung them toward each other. They slammed chests, then foreheads, and went down like bricks.
The boy did a front flip over their prone bodies, and the guy who'd been about to bear-hug him fell on his face. The bleeding mammoth lumbered upward, and the boy kicked him in the chest with a tattered tennis shoe. His attacker not only landed on his rump, but the momentum made him crash onto his back and his head thunked against the dirt and dry grass.
The one who'd meant to squeeze the kid to death sat up, rubbing his forehead. The boy was leaning over the kid whose nose he'd broken; he wasn't paying attention. I opened my mouth to shout a warning as the guy lumbered toward him like an out-of-control locomotive on a downhill track, and Sawyer clapped a hand over my lips.
At the last possible instant, the boy ducked, twisted, and kicked out with his left leg. The attacker flew off his feet and back several yards. He was slow getting up, as were the other three. They shook their heads, dazed, but they came right back.
A low rumbling growl swirled around the clearing, increasing to a roar—a lion's roar—so loud and forceful I could have sworn the trees shook, and the earth trembled. If that wasn't scary enough, the kid's eyes blazed amber and his mane of tangled golden-brown hair stuck out from his head like Medusa's snakes.
"Marbas," I said.
"Some kind of lion-shifter," Sawyer murmured.
"What kind?" I asked.
Sawyer shrugged. He knew some things, but not everything.
The bullies ran, crashing through the underbrush like wounded water buffalo. The Marbas clenched and unclenched his hands, bouncing on his toes, his light eyes intent on their retreating forms.
His need to chase them vibrated in the air like an approaching electrical storm. When prey ran, predators pursued. It was what we did.
Even when I'd been a cop, the principle applied. Only the guilty ran. Not to chase them had been as against my nature then as it must be against this kid's nature to let the vanquished escape. But he did.
I contemplated him and wondered why we had come here. To stop him from killing those kids? He hadn't, and he could have, which made me think he wasn't evil, but you never could tell.
I pulled my knife from its sheath. Silver worked on most shifters and was always worth a try.
"You can come out now," the kid murmured, still staring after the departed boys.
I didn't realize he was talking to us until Sawyer skirted the trees and strode into the clearing.
The Marbas looked him up and down. "I guess you aren't from social services," he said.
Sawyer didn't answer.
"What about her?" He jerked his head toward the trees.
He was good. I slipped out, and as soon as I did, the boy's lips curved. "I don't think you're a social worker, either."
I supposed the knife gave me away.
"So who are you and how did you find me?"
Sawyer had found him. Which, come to think of it, was weird. He wasn't a seer, that was my gig, but I hadn't had a tingle until I'd gotten close. To figure out once and for all why we were here, I needed to get a lit-tie closer.
"I'm Elizabeth Phoenix." I put away the knife, then held out my hand for a shake. A risk, true, but Sawyer could take a lion. I hoped.
The kid hesitated, as if he weren't used to people shaking his hand, then he stuck his out. "Luther Vincent."
The instant his huge paw enveloped my much smaller appendage, I saw where he'd been. Foster home after foster home. No one had had the courage to keep him. Strange things happened around Luther that no one could explain. Bloody things. Deadly things.
His parents had been—
The kid tugged on his hand. I didn't let go. I closed my eyes and opened my mind.
Killed by lions. In a suburb in—
My fingers tightened. Cleveland.
I wondered how those in charge had managed to explain that.
When he tugged again, I let him go, and the instant before our hands separated, I caught a word: Barbas.
I needed a quick session at Starbucks with my laptop. Then, hopefully, the great and wonderful World Wide Web would make all things clear.
"You okay, lady?"
I opened my eyes. Lady? I was twenty-five.