I straightened, slowly. My claws retracted. The purr of the minivan retreated, almost swallowed up in the hum of traffic.
I pitched back, grabbed the waist-high edge of the rooftop, and plummeted. It is no great trick to land softly from a height. The sound of cloth tearing was lost in the backwash of sirens as the mortal authorities arrived to wonder at the damage caused.
*
When there were no traffic laws, sometimes a vehicle could escape. They were lumbering-slow, true, but the flux and pattern of other crowding carriages sometimes provided cover. Nowadays, though, if you stalk a metal carriage through the streets, there are only certain choices at each intersection. If you can keep the sound of the engine in range, even better.
I did not worry about the padding-soft footfalls behind me. If the lykanthe had meant to attack, he would have. I cared little about his intent, as long as he did not rob me of my revenge.
The van was aiming for the freeway, a cloverleaf looping of pavement. It slowed, straining and wallowing through a turn. I leapt, catching the overpass’s concrete railing, velvet snapping like a flag in a high wind as I soared.
Thin metal crunched as I landed hard, claws out and digging through the van’s roof. It slewed, wildly, more predictable than a frightened horse. I am small and dark from childhood malnutrition even the Turn could not completely erase, easier for me to curl in tightly and hold on.
How Zhen had laughed at me. Tall lean Zhen with his grace. I was gymnastic, he told me in his mellifluous native tongue, not a dancer . I laughed with him, for it was true. But it was I who brought home stolen life each night, to fuel his leaps and turns in the mirrored room given over entirely to his dancing. Shelves of CDs and the equipment to transfer music from one form of storage to another, all burned and dead now, and dance was an evanescent art. He would never discover another movement, another combination, inside his long body now.
The van slowed, still swerving wildly, and I held, wrists aching where the spurs responsible for claw control moved under the skin. When I had the rhythm I would lift one hand and tear the top of the minivan open like one of Amelie’s cans of—
Pain. Great roaring pain.
I flew, weightless, the egg in my chest cracked as my heart struggled to function, its bone shield almost pierced. The thudding was agony, I twisted as I rolled, glare of light and horrific screaming noise before I was hit again and dragged, the stake in my chest clicking against the road. My arm was caught in something, mercilessly twisted and hauling me along, shoulder savagely stretched.
A heavy crunch and a snarl. The dragging stopped short. Little hurt sounds, I realized I was making them. And bleeding, a heavy tide of stolen life against unforgiving stone.
Not stone. Concrete. Bleeding on concrete. A stake. I ached to pull it out, but my hands were loose and unresponsive. My claws flexed helplessly, tearing at the road’s surface.
Footsteps. “Be … still.” Halting, as if the mouth didn’t work quite properly. “Not … hrgh … enemy.”
Twisting. Wrenching. Each splinter gouged sensitive tissue as he pulled it free. A gush of blood, steaming in the chill night air. Too much, I was losing too much, I would not be able to feed them when I returned—
I remembered they were dead just as the stake tore free and was tossed aside. Then I was lifted, limp as a rag doll, and the night filled my head.
*
Daylight sleep is deep and restorative. It is a mercy that it holds no dreams. Though I could swear I saw them all printed inside my eyelids. Each one of my charges, my wards, my war against Time.