At once the day dimmed, clouds boiling out of the blue and grumbling over the sky. The edges of the world became grittier, its sounds harsher. The air grew sullen and bitter to the tongue.
Annabella cast her weight forward as Custo whipped around. Black bled through the mossy green of his eyes, obscuring the color. The veins in his neck, forearms, and the backs of his hands darkened, as if his heart now pumped Shadow. His expression took on a mask of barely controlled rage.
“Stay back,” he said, his voice a low rumble of effort.
She dodged his outstretched arms and wrapped herself around him anyway, gripping her wrists around his back so she couldn’t be shaken off. If Adam’s men were going to shoot, they’d have to shoot her first. She wasn’t going anywhere.
“I can’t fight him long,” Custo ground out, his cruel hands prying at her wrists.
“You should have thought of that before,” Annabella answered, holding on tight to spite him. A sob formed in her throat, but she swallowed it back. She could cry later. “How dare you change places with me? It’s not right. Everyone here knows it’s not right.”
“Adam!” Custo called. “Take her! Please!”
In her arms, Custo was changing, his chest broadening. His breath came in labored pants.
Two Segue soldiers crouch-walked into position at Custo’s back, guns trained on him. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Luca holding a long blue blade.
Even the angels were against them.
“Annabella, I don’t want to hurt you.” Custo sounded like he was speaking through clenched teeth.
“You won’t,” she answered back. “You love me.”
“I do, but the wolf wants you”—Custo shuddered—“bad.”
“Sucks to be him.”
“This is the only way,” Custo said. His voice had taken on a disturbing bestial roll, but she wasn’t giving up.
“Listen to me, Custo,” Annabella said. “I don’t want you to die for me. What kind of crappy gesture is that for someone you love?” The worst.
“Annabella…” Bones cracked in his shoulders.
“Besides, you already died for someone once,” she continued, “and look how that turned out.”
He growled in her ear, breath hot on her neck.
“Try something different.” Her sob broke free anyway, and she spoke through her tears. “Live.”
Custo gripped Annabella’s wrists so tightly the bones moved. She squeaked, but she wouldn’t let go. Twining voices filled his head, but they couldn’t agree: Kill her. Love her. Use her. Fuck her. Protect her.
Where was Adam when he needed him?
Annabella raised her face, expression stubborn. The blue was back in her irises, her skin clear and perfect. She was normal and whole again.
She returned his scrutiny. “Not your best look,” she said.
In the glass storefront across the street, he was unrecognizable. His bones had altered to accommodate more muscle and tough flesh. His cheekbones were prominent, eyes wider, blacker, deeper. Shadow pulsed through his veins and sparked along his nerves. The power surging within him was thrilling, giddy, and slick.
Custo turned slowly, assessing the street. Soldiers crouched in a wide circle around him, poised to shoot. Luca’s knuckles were white with his grip on the sword. Shadowman’s disinterest had given way to pity.
Adam’s gun was loose at his side. He’d taken a step toward Annabella, ostensibly to retrieve her, but stopped himself.
“Adam!” Custo shouted.
Adam moved no closer. Made no attempt to rescue Annabella.
Custo looked at the sky for help, but the heavens were closed. The storm above swallowed the tops of buildings and snapped with electricity, agitating the dark boulders of the clouds to knock hollowly into one another.
A growl shuddered through his mind, hungry and impatient for the storm to break. For the street to run with red.
He took Annabella’s arms and forced her grip to break, knowing he’d leave bruises. Her hold on him loosed with sobbing shakes. “Not letting go” ran together in a notlet-tinggo chant forced through the clench of her teeth. She slid down his body to her knees, her forehead hot against his hip, arms locking again elbow to elbow.
Insensible to anything but holding on to him, she’d just given Adam and his soldiers a clean shot. Custo’s head and chest were in plain view. There was little danger of hitting her.
The time was now.
He glanced down to stroke her hair in a last comfort, but his hands were altered, fingers thick, mottled with gray, and tipped with wicked-sharp, curling black claws. They itched to gouge, crush, and tear, incapable of gentleness.
Custo fisted them tightly, his heart fisting, too. He would not lay those hands on her head. Would not touch Annabella with violence while a shred of his soul remained intact. His love for her condensed into a bright will not that roped the beast of his rising bloodlust.
He lifted his arms open to the side in a wide arrest position, his nails cutting into his palms. He’d come full circle, ready again to face death. This time a final, endless, consuming darkness.