Momentum being what it was, he sprinted forward to keep up with the driver’s side window, and the second the sedan came to a halt, he locked eyes with a—shit, it was a kid behind the wheel, a human young who couldn’t have been much older than fourteen or fifteen, not that Lucan knew a ton about the aging cycle of the other species.
Actually, it was two kids, and they were arguing with each other, like over who’d chosen to come this way. Then both doors punched open and they bolted from the scene, taking off so fast, Lucan didn’t have time to get into their brains and demand that they give him control of the vehicle.
Might be the only thing that went his way tonight, Lucan thought.
The deserters had left the engine in gear, so without any brake pedal pressure, the sedan was rolling forward at an idle. Hopping in, he yanked the wheel around and hit the gas. The passenger’s side door flopped wide on the turn, but as he righted the course to straight, it clapped shut.
For no good reason, he noticed that he smelled fast food and glanced across the console. The passenger side’s wheel well was filled with Burger King bags, and that pair had obviously just stopped for some more grub. There was also something else in the air—fake strawberry and tobacco smoke.
The car was clearly stolen. Not exactly the complication he was looking for. He’d have preferred to tamper with the memories of a human so that he didn’t have to worry about the Caldwell police having an all-points bulletin out on Rio’s escape route away from that walk-up. But he had no time to spare to look for a better four-wheel option.
Back at the walk-up, he pulled in next to the deconstructed sofa, slammed the gearshift into park, and jerked the keys out from the steering column. It was a good thing that the beater was so old. In the last couple of months, he’d learned that modern cars had remotes that could live in a pocket or a bag and didn’t have to be plugged into the ignition.
Those boys might well have taken the ability to secure and restart the thing with them.
Stretching across the seats, he pushed down the lock on the passenger door. Then he was out and locking the driver’s panel with the key.
He’d never moved so fast in his life: In the rear entrance. Back down the dark hall. Around the base of the stairs and then up the steps three at a time, his hand grabbing at the balustrade and hauling his weight up.
Fourth landing now—and he remembered how he’d left her with the gun.
“It’s me,” he said before he jumped into the open doorway. “Rio? Don’t shoot, it’s me—”
“I’m here,” was the weak response.
Lucan all but flew into the shitty apartment, expecting to see the woman slumped on the floor. She was not. Her head was listing to the side, but other than that, she was precisely where he’d arranged her, like a rag doll abandoned by its maker.
God, she looked bad.
Yet her eyes were shining fiercely, and that nine millimeter was angled right where it needed to be.
Her body might have been failing her; her will was not.
As he rushed over to her, time fell into a crawl. It seemed like a hundred years until he was kneeling by her side again, and the sight of her so battered and bruised was etched into his mind, indelible. From her matted short hair, to the blood that stained her sliced-open fleece and shirt, to the ligature marks around her pale throat, she was nothing like the woman he had met the night before.
And to think he’d almost ignored that sound he’d heard, that prickle of awareness that he’d had out in front of the building as he’d been about to leave.
If he’d been even ten minutes later or had taken off . . . she’d have been hurt in ways that were intolerable to consider.
That bloody, naked corpse over in the corner hadn’t paid enough.
“Let’s go,” he choked out.
When he went to take the gun from her, she shook her head. “I’ll cover us. You just carry me out of here, and I’ll shoot anything in our way.”
Her voice was stronger than it had been, and he took a moment to respect the warrior that was just under her skin. Then he slung the pack her attacker had brought with him onto his shoulder, scooped her up—and grimaced as she gasped and grunted in pain. As he marched them into the light of the stairwell, he glared across at the mangled body.
Out in the common landing, he had to give her credit. Despite her condition, she kept that weapon pointed right in front of them. The job required both her hands, but he knew that she wasn’t going to drop the weight.
She was going to protect them . . . as he did his very best to save her life.
It went without saying that if Luke hadn’t shown up when he did, Rio would have been dead by now.
That was the thought that she used to distract herself from the waves of burning agony that lightning’d through her muscles and bones. The trip down the stairs was incredibly painful, each rushing step a jarring reminder of everything she had been through.
So Luke had saved her three times, as it turned out.
Maybe she was a cat, though. And still had six left.
When he bottomed out by the front door, Luke paused and turned left, turned right. Courtesy of her iron grip on the gun, the muzzle swung around to both of the open apartments. No one came out of the darkness on either side.
“We’re going out the back door,” he said.
And then the pain started up again as his long strides carried them both down a narrow hallway that had sheets of vinyl wallpaper peeling off from the ceiling and trash scattered to the sides of the corridor, a Litter Sea parted by those who had created the problem.
The back door had a small window set about five feet up from the floor, the opaque glass crisscrossed with chicken wire. Luke kicked the thing open—and right outside was an old two-door Cutlass sedan. Navy blue. With a pinstripe.
He went around and unlocked the passenger side with a key, the old-fashioned way. Then he had to tilt her down so he could pull the handle, and there was a metal-on-metal squeak as he opened things.
“I’ll be as careful as I can—”