chapter SEVENTEEN
The rest of that run is a patchwork of confusion in my memory. Bolting across streets, into alleys, up fire escapes, rooftops blurring underfoot, Christophe more often than not hauling me along because I wasn’t moving fast enough to suit him. I wasn’t about to complain.
It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t light either. We stuck to pools of shadow, flitting from cover to cover, streetlights and city glow suddenly enemies instead of friends. The suckers wouldn’t use guns—not likely, Christophe said, but the Maharaj were another proposition. Once someone opened up on us with an assault rifle, and the sound of the bullets chewing into the street behind me still sometimes shows up in my dreams.
Christophe hanging and twisting to kick in a window, Nat blurring between changeform and girlshape as she ran, random reflections of light picking out iron grillwork on a balcony or the pattern of bricks on a restaurant’s facade. The moon, behind low scudding clouds and smiling like a diseased coin. The glow of Christophe’s eyes as he scanned a rooftop, Nat crouching and panting a little while she rested for ten seconds before we were off again, her hair ruffling in the breeze. A car’s headlights throwing our shadows against a graffiti-tangled concrete wall.
“Got any more grenades?” Nat yelled merrily, and Christophe swore in reply, with breathtaking inventiveness. I levered myself up over the roof’s edge like I was muscling out of a swimming pool. My hair fell in my face and the bloodhunger burned all through me. The fangs dug into my lower lip; I had to be careful or I’d bite out a chunk of myself and they’d have a blood trail.
I was so glad, for once, that svetocha only have teensy top fangs; boy djamphir’s are larger and only on the top too. Sucker fangs are top and bottom, and they are serious business. I’d seen pictures of what those teeth could do. The jaw distends like a snake fixing to take down a huge egg, and sometimes they tear flesh to get at the liquid inside.
“Door,” Christophe said, as close to short of breath as I’d ever heard him. Nat’s boot had already thudded onto the metal door’s surface; it crumpled like paper. “Could you be any louder, Skyrunner?”
“I could,” she shot back cheerfully. “Would you like me to? Up. We’re almost there.”
I was glad. My ribs heaved; sweat stood out on my skin. We were just a jump ahead of the nosferat. There were so many of them, no time to take a breath, just the running and Christophe and Nat bantering back and forth like they were at a party or something. I’d heard Dad use that sort of humor before, with other human hunters.
I was too occupied running and not doing anything stupid to contribute. Plus, I couldn’t find anything witty to say.
I mean, oh God oh God we’re all gonna die doesn’t really fit the definition of banter, now does it.
The suckers kept screaming, hunting-cries echoing all over the city. I wondered what normal people were thinking of this, if they’d even hear, if they’d blame it on a neighbor’s television or something. There were sirens everywhere too, and fires. I wasn’t sure how much of it was just big-city warfare that happens on any normal night, and how much was suckers torching places where maybe djamphir or wulfen were fleeing—or trying to buy us some time to escape.
I didn’t know how many of the Order were in the city. Things sounded bad, and the terse questions Christophe threw at Nat when we weren’t scrambling were thought-provoking and terrifying all at once.
Inside, there were more stairs. I actually groaned before I could help myself, and Nat laughed. “Good for your ass!” she barked, and took them two at a time. Christophe’s hand closed around my arm. I didn’t need it—the aspect was still reliably doing its job. I’d been weaker and slower for so long, though, that I was kind of afraid of going all out. I couldn’t pace myself.
“Just a little further.” He’d gained his breath back, even though I could see the sweat drying in his hair. The soot and grime striping him looked like it was placed for maximum effect. “Extraction point’s on the roof. We’ll be safe in ten.”
I found enough breath for a single word. “Okay.” Then I concentrated on not being a hindrance. Our footsteps were in such close tandem they sounded like a single pair.
“Clear of the zone we’ll get a plane; we’ll land in Houston. There’s a Schola there—hot food and a good bed. Protection for you. They’ll have the loup-garou there, under restraint.” Christophe pushed me in front of him. “Keep going.”
I did. Nat sometimes leaned forward, her palms slapping the stairs as she flowed through changeform and back, stretching and leaping so gracefully it was enough to make the heart hurt. She was down to her last clip of ammo; I knew because she’d merrily informed Christophe of the fact three and a half minutes ago.
Up, and up, and up, breath tearing in my lungs and the aspect blurring everything around me. When Nat gathered herself in the middle of the last flight, I barely slowed. She extended in a fluid leap; another metal door crumpled and she rode it down. Leapt free, twisting in midair to land on her boots and skid to a perfectly-controlled stop.
“Ta-da!” she cried, and the helicopter crouching on the rooftop, in absolute defiance of any codes or regulations, whined as its motor started. It looked vaguely military, dull black and huge, and there, in the opening on the side, was a familiar face.
Hiro crouched, his lean caramel-colored face set as it usually was. He half-rose, fluid djamphir grace evident in every line of him, his black hair writhing in spikes as the aspect poured over him like a river. He was on the Council, and he was scary—but he 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.